


Transformers - Urban Legends

by Satoru



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: And some nice stuff as well, Conspiracy Theories, Crack, Creepypasta, Crime, Critters, Death, Deepest Fears, Drugs, Humor, Love, Multi, Parody, Plug'n'Play, Unhealthy Relationships, Urban Legends, Violence, War, dark themes, desease, social taboos
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:48:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 23,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26737651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Satoru/pseuds/Satoru
Summary: Do you happen to know any urban legends? The stories that seem too good to be true? Stories that shock you, scandalize, entertain you after another long day of routine. Stories that return to you at night as you’re lying in your berth and staring at the ceiling, sleeplessly reconsidering them, analysing, doubting, unnerving yourself… Are they real or not?… Are they bound to happen to you or not?Shall you ask Skyfire about his friend’s horrible demise (possibly due to finding dead turborat in his energon fries) first thing in the morning? Or pester Ratchet about chances of catching cosmic rust from eating solely red energon goodies if some convoluted conditions are met? Demand reports from Jazz and Prowl detailing how often mechs discover severed hooks dangling from their doors after returning from their local Lovers’ Lane and what exactly was determined by investigators in each of these cases? Fire-breathing dragons, skeletal avian monsters living inside asteroids being simultaneously their home, egg and dinner, or giant purple griffins are real, after all, then how other things are not?
Comments: 22
Kudos: 8





	1. STORIES

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is it true that everybody eats on average twelve Insecticons in their lifetime when asleep?

Stories! Who of us doesn’t love them? Stories of great dangers, of unsuspected culprits, misadventures in disgust and wonder, disease and death. Stories to explain great mysteries and to cover up grand mishaps, stories reflecting the times with its fears and desires. Stories revealing ugly and horrific worlds squirming right beneath the thin surface of your securely dull everyday life. Stories that happened to your friend, no, actually it was their friend, no, actually their friend’s acquaintance, oh, wait, as far as you know, it was actually your friend’s friend’s acquaintance’s colleague’s associate… A bit hard to pinpoint, isn’t it?

Stories that inspire awe. Stories that entertain. Stories to be told in darkness. Stories too good to be true - - Wait, but they are true, right? You’ve heard this same story about Insecticons in plants from five different people on five different planets who knew someone it had happened to so it must be true, right? The lil’ bastards must be real busy, undoubtedly. And now it makes you wonder…

Is it true that the Insecticons were cross-dressers? Is it true that Optimus Prime died and returned as evil zombie? Is it true that certain Terrorcon electrocuted himself to death after sticking a metal fork into his port for masturbatory purpose? Are Dinobots actually the result of forbidden tryst between Tripticon and Wheeljack, this entire “simple brains” operation concocted to hide the fraternisation? Is it true that if you call Bloody Mary ten times in a row she will finally answer and tell you to shut up? Is it true that Sparkplug was in the union and their president was killed and eaten by the mafia? Is it true that the Autobots’ return to Cybertron was fake and filmed in the studio since it contained humans sans protective equipment who were breathing freely and getting rained on by acid without upsetting them?

Are BigMacs the only food the Terrorcons refuse to eat? Is it true that whenever the Decepticon leader gets new Second-in-Command, the current Second-in-Command has to die? Is it true that the Decepticon tower in New York was pinkish because Mixmaster used humans from Empire State Building as building material? Is it true that Shockwave has poor depth perception? Is it true that Cliffjumper kicked the bucket after measly shot to the arm? Is it true that you can’t lick your elbow-tyres? Was Carly an actual superhuman bred in the laboratory in accordance to stolen Soviet data, which enabled her to swim without protective equipment into the Nemesis at the bottom of the freaking ocean? Is it true that Huffer was created when Vector Sigma stepped on a Lego and huffed in impotent fury?

Is it true that Octane took the brunt of Blitzwing’s misdeeds because Galvatron couldn’t tell one purple triplechanger from another and everyone was too afraid of the lunatic to correct him? Is it true that the Soviet Union didn’t collapse in 1990? Is it true that Bumblebee is better Autobot leader than Optimus Prime? Is it true that Skyfire was offed by the studio over copyright dispute and got replaced by his evil twin Jetfire? Is it true that Dinobots have no souls? Is it true that Sunstreaker once killed a bot for scratching his paintjob? Is it true that Ratchet routinely throws objects at his patients to get their attention because due to Prime’s powerful voice most Autobots have poor hearing? Is it true that Autobots and Decepticons have different DNA?

Is it true that Powerglide and Astoria’s illegitimate offspring was secretly brought up in Detroit to become a robotized cop named Sari? Is it true that the Constructicons can fly in their alt-modes? Is there life after death? Is it true that Scraplet isn’t malevolent, it’s just misunderstood? Is it true that rubies from this one mine are the most powerful fuel  on Earth ? Is it true that demons used to live in the guts of Cybertron? Is it true that Swindle sold his own team for scrap? Is it true that everybody eats on average twelve Insecticons in their lifetime when asleep? Is it true that Santa used to kidnap and devour naughty children? Is it true that Carbombya was a made-up country created as means of American propaganda? Is it true that Mirage was a traitor? Is it true that Primus created Simon Furman, not the other way round? 

Is any of that true? Surely, we will never know. Such is the nature of urban myths, after all. We can still study them, though, know them better… And perhaps learn something about ourselves in the process? Little girls that we are, needing constant reminders from society of what we shouldn’t do, or else we’ll end up eating something or something will end up eating us…

Unless you’re this special brand of buzzkill who employs facts and logic to fun, but, honestly, who does that? Really, it’s some Starscream-on-Megatron-level nitpicking. Shame on this!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooh, I’m so excited! Here’s the little project where I combine two things I love: Transformers and urban legends. Which means that I take existing legends and, well, transform ‘em a bit. Funny thing: it’s never particularly difficult to translate human-based stories into stories with giant transforming robots from space; I think it just shows how ‘alien’ those guys really are. And, frankly, is it a bad thing? Do you like your Transformers with many aspects of lives mirroring ours or the way Michael Bay made them? You don’t need to answer, of course, it’s a rhetorical question!  
>   
> Aaand, naturally, urban legends tend to be really dark, conveyed in order to alert people and scare them into obeying societal rules (and I freaking mean it – organ theft, dead babies, gang violence, human trafficking, murder, cannibalism, necrophilia, getting humiliated in front of others, all nine yards), therefore, like, be prepared for this, OK?  
> That being said, in spite of the title I won’t be dealing solely with urban legends. From time to time I’ll throw some creepypasta into the mix, a paranormal phenomenon, a parody of a work of culture, a joke or not even something like that. The length of works varies, wildly. This time, rather exceptionally, I allow different continuities to mix, hence, even though it’s all primarily the G1 Cartoonverse, it can contain some foreign elements, so relax and don’t get flustered as I normally would (yes, I’m awful like this).  
>   
> I hope that reading these ficlets you’ll have as much fun as I have writing them!


	2. OH YES, THEY CAN!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He felt too tired to get up… Actually, he was scared slagless.

_Rumble heard it from Frenzy who heard it from Rumble who heard it from Frenzy who heard it from Rumble who heard it from Frenzy who heard it from Enemy who swears it’s all true!_

One night Teletraan-1 suddenly activated an alert. Contrary to their usual habits, the Decepticons organized their newest energon raid closer midnight than noon – and a massive one to that. All the Autobots were called to action and the only ones left in the Ark were security officer Red Alert, communication officer Blaster and his feline technimal cassette Steeljaw. Soon Red Alert went out to patrol Ark’s surroundings leaving Blaster with only Steeljaw and some instructions for company.

So he carefully checked all the nooks on the ship, missing only one narrow passage hidden in darkness. Red Alert had assured him that chances of a Decepticon attack were low given their numbers spotted on the oil rig, but still. Due to the Autobot energy-saving policy all the places not currently used were barely lit. The abandoned medbay and – for some reason – the washracks were giving off especially sinister vibes. Blaster was walking through deadly empty corridors and rooms of the usually busy headquarters and this eerie atmosphere of desolation was giving him creeps.

The communication officer finished his round as fast as he could and returned to the brightly lit common room where Steeljaw was napping on his rug in front of the couch. Blaster collapsed on the couch and for a moment tried watching TV (muted should something suspicious alert him) but he couldn’t focus to follow a bloody story of five teenagers in a cabin in the woods and… Something in the woods. Or rather he was following it too closely for his liking.

Far from relaxed, Blaster turned TV off and decided to try to have a nap too. He swung his hand from the coach over the lying technimal.

“Hey, buddy… A little one for gettin’ rid of the scares?” he asked only half-jokingly. Steeljaw stirred and reassuringly licked his palm. Feeling better, Blaster withdrew the arm and drifted into shallow recharge hoping that the Autobots or at least Red Alert would be back shortly.

After some indefinite time he was awaken by a distant sound of dripping liquid. It shouldn’t be there. Blaster had made sure that all the taps in the washracks were secured. Perhaps he should go there and check on them but… Those were just stupid taps and he felt too tired to get up (actually, he was scared slagless) so Blaster just swung his hand downward again.

“Heheh, sorry, buddy, bad dream,” he partially lied. “One more on the house, please?” He got another lick and went back to sleep.

Finally, Teletraan-1 once again went back to life announcing incoming transmission from Optimus Prime. Blaster sprung up to answer it and was happy to learn that the Decepticreeps were successfully pushed out and had their afts kicked for a good measure and the Autobots were on their way back to the Ark. Feeling his bravado rising anew Blaster decided to go to the washracks and finally do something with this fragging dripping before the rest would arrive, dirty and tired, and complain on the malfunction. He entered the facility and froze in terror.

Red Alert and Steeljaw were hanging from the ceiling, energon from their lifeless frames dripping ceaselessly and forming growing puddles on the tiled floor. There was also energon on the wall smeared in shapes that looked like letters. When Blaster could focus his optics after the initial shock and realised what it was saying he nearly fell over.  
“DECEPTICONS CAN LICK TOO”

(There is also a non-gory version of this legend where Blaster gets licked twice to later meet a battled Steeljaw returning together with the rest of the Autobots. Panicking, he gets back to the place where the technimal was supposed to lie and discovers letters scratched on the floor – allegedly by Ravage – saying: “DECEPTICONS CAN LICK TOO AS YOU KNOW VERY WELL.”

There is also a version with a clown but… Yeah.)

Source: <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Licked_Hand>


	3. …APART FROM THAT THERE’S NOTHING NEW!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Apart from that: Autobots are Autobottish, squishies are squishy, Swindle swindles; there’s nothing new, my lord!”

_Computron heard it from Predaking who heard it from Abominus who heard it from Repugnus who heard it from Punch who heard it from Counterpunch who swears it’s all true!_

“Welcome back, Lord Megatron!” Astrotrain merrily greeted his commander while he was exiting the space bridge. “I hope that all’s good on ol’ Cybertron?”

“Yes,” returning Megatron nodded, quite pleased with himself. “Everything goes smoothly and we are getting closer to our glorious aim to conquer the entire galaxy. Next time, wretched Autobots, next time… And how are you doing here on Earth, Astrotrain? Am I missing some news?”

“Nah, there’s nothing new, oh glorious leader! Just Ravage drowned.”

“Ravage… Drowned?” The Decepticon Supreme Commander stopped dead in his tracks. “How did that happen?”

“Well, all that pressure at the bottom of the ocean just crushed the poor kitty and he drowned.”

“How by the Spires did he get there in the first place?”

“Heheh, kinda not his decision: when the Nemesis was breached he got sucked out.”

“Nemesis was breached? By whom?!”

“No-one, actually. Just the entire security system totally crushed.”

“Security system… Crushed! Was that some Pit-spawned Autobot saboteur?”

“No, no – it did it itself.”

“Itself?!”

“Yeah, after death of its creator it was sorta set to self-destruct.”

“Death… Vector Sigma! Who died?”

“What, you don’t remember who made the blasted thing, Lord Megatron? Soundwave, of course!”

“Soundwave is dead?! How… How did that happen?”

“A-ah, Starscream shot him. Dead on the spot, he-heh.”

“Starscream… Shot him… Why the frag did he do that?!”

“Oh, that’s easy: because Soundwave tried to stop him.”

“Stop him from what?!”

“From running away with that Skyfire guy and joining the Autobots, naturally.”

For a moment Megatron was speechless, staring into space with non-seeing optics.

“Vector… Sigma...”

”Yeah!” Astrotrain carried on cheerfully. “Apart from that: Autobots are Autobottish, squishies are squishy, Swindle swindles; there’s nothing new, my lord!”

Source: <https://www.snopes.com/fact-check/climax-of-horrors/>


	4. BETWEEN TWO HAMMERS YOU ARE SCREWED

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After several weeks in the middle of hot summer the smell came into play and the humans got curious.

_Galvatron heard it from Scourge who heard it from Cyclonus who heard it from Ultra Magnus who heard it from Rodimus Prime who swears it’s all true!_

Motormaster… The mechs were saying that he was created by Megatron to be his counterpart. His nemesis. Well, a somewhat lesser nemesis after Megatron himself, but nemesis nevertheless. This self-proclaimed “King of the Road” – so large, so loud, so dark, so brutal, so callous – always managed to bring out the worst in Optimus Prime. No surprise then that seeing this dark semi one day, charging at him with vicious disregard for road safety, the Autobot leader couldn’t turn down such invitation: he transformed and rolled out. And everything went blank.

It seemed to be one Pit of a collision for when he onlined at last, Prime felt like an exhibit from a scrapyard. Aching, weak, dented all over the place and with a nagging feeling of some unremoved dirt under his plating. After a bit of recalibrating in his sole functioning optic he recognized a grim Ratchet above him, the medbay around him and a royally battered Motormaster on a berth next to his. Yeah, one Pit of a collision all right. Only something felt off. That silence… That calmness… That space…

Where was the rest of the Autobots? They should be here cheering for their commander, trash talking the Stunticon leader, tripping on each other and generally giving Ratchet a helmache. Optimus Prime felt a mite betrayed. Weren’t they concerned at all? As the medic explained, they were busy. With a Decepticon attack? No, nothing of a kind. Just payments and amends. The legal stuff. And many of them weren’t back yet from the worldwide search.

What search? Ratchet sighed. Then glared at Motormaster for his snarky remark about looking for Prime’s trailer and threw a wrench at him for a good measure. Then he sat down and told them what he knew.

The two mighty truckformers on a head-on collision at top speed were bound to end up in a pretty dented shape. Truth be told, Ratchet stated, they should be glad to survive at all, the idiots. The impact practically fused them together, not to mention knocking them offline and disrupting all their systems. Hence the Autobots were unable either to contact or to locate their knocked-out leader and the Decepticons had to experience similar difficulties. After some time, days maybe, certain humans run into them and deemed the wreckage an ordinary crash. Incapable of separating them on the spot, they transported them to the nearest junkyard and left this giant chunk of metal for the time being. They were fragging lucky nobody started slicing them for scrap.

But… Wait an astrosecond! What lost contact? What lack of location? There was no need for all this search, he wasn’t there alone… Ratchet glowered at Prime and continued his story: they were left lying on the scrapyard and nobody took any interest in them for several weeks. That is, until the smell appeared. Optimus and Motormaster flinched, the nagging feeling creeping beneath their plating all over again.

After several weeks in the middle of hot summer the smell came into play and the humans got curious. Trucks, no matter how demolished, shouldn’t smell so organically. So they finally got their heavy-duty tools and worked to unfuse the large vehicles. It was really tough and Ratchet’s subsequent work was tough as well for they really rammed into each other hard. It proved difficult to say where one truck was ending and another one was beginning.

It took them several days, yet they managed to do their job and when the two lifeless transformers were finally separated it turned out they weren’t there by themselves. Crushed between the two cockpits there was a yellow Volkswagen Beetle and crushed inside the Volkswagen Beetle there was a male body and crushed into the body there was a reddish tape deck. And there were no driving documents which finally told the humans whom had they found.

Then Optimus Prime was utterly horrified and Motormaster was absolutely disgusted on learning that their mindless violence had killed Bumblebee, Spike and Blaster.

  
  


So remember girls: never get yourselves caught between two big-aft trucks heading on collision. Not only you’re extremely unlikely to complain to anyone but Primus afterwards but also those large machines (or organics inside those large machines) may not even see you at all!

  
  


Source: <https://www.snopes.com/fact-check/crushin-roulette/>


	5. THEY HAVE BETTER THINGS TO DO THAN STAYING DEAD!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As soon as they got there, a thorough search revealed that Perceptor’s shocking diagnosis was accurate.

_Sandstorm heard it from Optimus Prime who heard it from this guy from Chaar who heard it from his aunt who heard it from his gardener who swears it’s all true!_

  
  


One fine day Arcee discovered weird grey rush in the area of her upper lip. Alerted, she visited Perceptor to ask for some medical/scientific assistance. And assistance she received.

After careful examination the scientist transformed back to robot mode and explained that it was so-called dead rust – an ailment one contracts upon getting closely acquainted with a dead person or people. And he looked at her funny.

Feeling somehow startled Arcee hurried to explain that it couldn’t be the case because the only person she lately got closely acquainted with was very much not dead. He could ask shaken Rodimus Prime, amused Kup or indifferent Ultra Magnus if he didn’t believe her.

It happened several cycles earlier in the middle of a skirmish while they were firing at the Decepticons from behind a makeshift cover. Then Springer suddenly declared “I have better things to do today than die!” and grabbed a nearby Arcee whose surprise quickly dissolved into contentment. And wasn’t that a make-out to remember! Rodimus’ shocked squeaks couldn’t stop them, Ultra Magnus’ cold remarks couldn’t stop them, Kup’s words of encouragement couldn’t stop them. They didn’t stop when stupefied Divebomb exclaimed from above: “A guy and a girl? Primus, those Autobots ARE weird!” Springer didn’t even stop when he got shot (a shallow wound, luckily). All in all, a really great distraction, folks.

Perceptor listened to her, nodding, thinking, murmuring and showing no signs of disbelief but Arcee still felt uneasy. Finally he suggested that yes, indeed, he would like to talk about it with Rodimus. And Kup. And Ultra Magnus. At Springer’s place.

As soon as they got there, a thorough search revealed that Perceptor’s shocking diagnosis was accurate. For Springer had a back room where he was keeping plenty of dead mechs and amongst them Prowl, Ratchet, Optimus Prime and Cliffjumper. “Wait, you don’t understand!” Springer was shouting when Ultra Magnus and Kup were dragging him to the brig under charges of desecrating dead bodies. “They’re not dead! C’mon, you don’t die from _that!…_ I was trying to revive them!… No, you can’t stop me now… The humans call it ‘kiss of life’… He was shot in the _shoulder_! The shoulder, for frag’s sake!”

But Arcee, with Rodimus’ protective arm put around her, was too shocked and upset to care what he was saying.

  
  


So remember girls: if you’re planning a hot make-out session with this handsome guy don’t forget to first check if he’s not keeping a dead policeman in his closet!

  
  


Source: <https://www.snopes.com/fact-check/boyfriend-corpses-medical-condition/>

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I only knew the mild version with herpes, but holy cow, internet delivers!


	6. THE WAY TO HAVE YOUR AFT HAULED

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Was he even… Real?

_Runamuck heard it from Runabout who heard it from Wildrider who heard it from Dragstrip who heard it from Blurr who swears it’s all true!_

  
  


They say that Hound never takes hitchhikers (Perceptor still bears a phlegmatic grudge for it) and this is the reason why.

One fine pre-war Cybertronian day when he was on his way from one place to another, Hound spotted a lone mech sitting near the road. A mech spotted him too, rose to his feet and waved at the approaching grounder with a coy smile. Black and purple, he was quite pretty like all Seekers are bound to be. A bit perplexed, Hound stopped next to him and asked the flyer what was he doing there and if he needed any help.

The Seeker concurred and explained his trouble. He was coming back from his first real air show which was a great success and all. Unfortunately, he miscalculated the quantity of energon needed and on his way home he was caught by dangerously low fuel levels and nearly fell from the sky. He attempted to cover the remaining distance on foot, however, the way was long and exhausting. And if Hound happened to travel to Tarn or in its general direction and could offer him a helping ride he would be really grateful.

Hound mentally kicked himself on the thought how distinctly the Seeker pronounced the word “grateful” and assured him aloud that yes, of course, he was going to Tarn (he wasn’t but it was just a minute detail). He instructed his sudden companion to climb on his box-body and to give him an exact address. The unfortunate traveller gladly obliged, got onto him (Hound felt even more perplexed), curled up in the box and seemingly went into recharge which was understandable in his under-energised state.

During the long trip Hound tried small talk several times and attempted to tell him how one time he had been tracking some turbofoxes in heat only to find out that several bigger, meaner, and hornier turbofoxes had been tracking  _him_ , but the Seeker was only replying with monosyllables. Well, he had to be really tired then. So for the most of time Hound had only his thoughts for company. Among other things two trails seemed to dominate: how happy he was being able to help a fellow mech in need, and that he’d never got lucky with a Seeker. Of course, that second thread was deemed improper but the more Hound was trying to shove it away the more persistent it became.

When his passenger stirred and turned over Hound found himself in the middle of such a fierce internal battle that he failed to notice a massive bump on the road until it was too late. He got thrown into the air and nearly upturned and was additionally shocked by the most unsettling sound of… Laughter. In order to avoid painful landing he instinctively transformed mid-air and only after a moment he realised that something – or rather someone – was missing.

Panicking, the Autobot searched the nearest area – was his poor passenger catapulted away and injured? He had to be thrown really far… Finally Hound had to admit that his missing cargo simply wasn’t there. The Seeker couldn’t fly away unnoticed, couldn’t run away and couldn’t hide from Hound’s excellent tracking skills. What happened then? Did he simply… Vanish?

Was he even… Real?

There was no way that he was a hologram; holograms were Hound’s field of expertise and he was pretty damn sure that he would had recognized one. But what else could disappear so quickly and without a trace? Was he…? Hound remembered with a shiver that there was something wrong with the stranger’s energy signature – he seemed to be not entirely there. Was he… One of those hapless ghosts left from the mechs that weren’t aware they had died? Had he really fallen from the sky but was so bent on returning home that he kept reappearing at the spot he had crushed long ago and some weird curse was making him disappear before reaching his original destination? This conclusion was mightily unsettling. Being close to Tarn and having the address, Hound decided to head there and try to learn the truth about this beautiful and ill-fated creature he had weird luck to encounter.

Soon enough he found out that the place was a Seeker boarding house. He was quite shocked when the door was answered by a Seeker looking almost exactly like the one he had picked up and lost; only this one was blue and quite unhappy to see him. “Fraggit, another,” he murmured to himself.

“Um, excuse me...” Undeterred by a not-so warm welcome, Hound attempted to state his case. Impatient, the blue Seeker waved at him.

“Lemme guess: on your way to Tarn you run into a Seeker. Looking just like me, only black and purple.”

“Yes!” he confirmed, shocked anew.

“He said that he was out of fuel and asked you to give him a ride. And gave you this address.”

“Yes.”

“And several miles from here he just disappeared without a trace,” the blue Seeker was carrying on bitterly.

“Yes…”

“So you came here to ask what the frag is going on.”

“Yes…”

“And you’re the third such mech only this decacycle.”

“Yes?” Hound hold his vents. He had no idea that the otherworldly traveller was haunting the road so frequently. “I’m… I’m sorry.”

“Bet you are,” the Seeker shrugged. “Such is the price of a good spark,” he turned and addressed someone inside the house. “Am I right, you lying pile of scrap?”

“You’re right, TC!” And here Hound nearly jumped hearing the hitchhiker’s voice, only less shy and more amused. And sounding absolutely alive. Sighing, the answering Seeker faced his guest again.

“Name’s Skywarp,” he explained. “He can teleport on a several-mile range. And does it frequently – mostly to annoy the slag out of others. He wasn’t de-energised; even this idiot would never let this happen. He can fly. He can warp. He can walk. He can comm us for help or company. But no, he will have his aft hauled by unsuspecting strangers and scare them for their trouble,” he summarised darkly.

“This way it’s funnier!” proclaimed the hidden teleporting hitchhiker.

“Your face is funnier,” the blue Seeker grumbled.

“Hey, I heard that!” Skywarp protested. “You know what, TC? You really need to loosen up sometimes. Because right now you’re acting like you had a really big stick pushed up your…”

The blue Seeker stepped outside and shut the door, cutting off the rest of Skywarp’s tirade, and studiously eyed the slowly recovering grounder.

“Now you know,” he stated gravely. “Remember that. Warn others. Don’t you ever let these aftholes take advantage of goodness in your sparks.”

  
  


Source: <https://www.snopes.com/fact-check/the-vanishing-hitchhiker/>


	7. LOOK WHAT THE CAT DRAGGED I- - OW.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Wait, ‘wretched degenerate’? I feel great exaggeration in here…”

_Breakdown heard it from Drag Strip who heard it from Dead End who heard it from Wildrider who heard it from Buzzsaw who lost the game of scissors and paper_ _due to lack of hands_ _and had to tell him_ _. Many “Oooh!”s and “Aww!”s were had in a process._

Once upon a time a certain Decepticon communication officer employed a black feline technimal named Ravage whom he loved and cared about very much. Ravage lived in his quarters in the Nemesis, slept in his berth, ate energon from his rations and occasionally dwelt in his chest compartment. The same could be said about his remaining Cassetticons, but, hopefully, you get the picture. And, as any Cassetticon, Ravage was extremely loyal to his ‘boss’ and sacrificing his life to ensure Soundwave’s safety absolutely wasn’t beyond him.

Of course, Soundwave was equally likely to go to great lengths to defend his Cassetticons.

One day, upon returning to his quarters from the meeting with the rest of the Decepticon High Command, Soundwave found Ravage in his berthroom – lying unconscious on the ground and running hot. After establishing that the technimal was still functioning, terrified Soundwave picked him from the heated spot on the floor and run to the medbay, comming Hook in the way to ensure the help would be ready for arriving Ravage.

And so it was. Hook diagnosed the case as blocked vents and immediately proceeded to locate and remove the cause. Judging from lack of external wounds and dents on the patient he concluded that the reason for Ravage’s venting difficulty had to be some foreign object, probably something the feline had eaten. Knowing that Ravage had never entertained any idea of eating random objects that could possibly harm him, Soundwave decided to leave the medbay and return to his place in order to investigate. He needed answers to regain some control over situation, not to mention his burning need to do something more useful and productive than watching helplessly as his cherished friend was being gruesomely operated on.

He had barely reentered and gotten down to searching when he froze. The recovered Ravage sent through their cassette-host bond a great sense of distress, together with an urgent message that went through Soundwave’s systems like a lightning bolt: _Get out! Don’t you stay there, it’s danger! Out! OUT!_

Mere miliseconds later he was commed by Hook, whose words also felt urgent.

/…/Soundwave, have you returned to your quarters?/…/

/…/Affirmative- -/…/

/…/Leave NOW and lock the doors. The thing blocking Ravage’s vents is three Autobot fingers…/…/

Decepticon Third in Command immediately removed himself from the dangerous area which was promptly searched by a team of volunteers (very eager to get themselves in Soundwave’s good books). Soon, in the air duct they discovered Jazz with seriously injured right hand. Had it not been for Ravage’s bravery and Hook’s quick action, who knows what this wretched degenerate might have had in mind for unsuspecting Soundwave…

Source:[ https://www.snopes.com/fact-check/the-choking-doberman/](https://www.snopes.com/fact-check/the-choking-doberman/)

So remember girls: when your kitty, doggy, Terrorcon, petrobunny, turbofox, Guinea pig, unicorn or Grimlock is choking, grab them and run the Pit for your life!

Or just, you know, to your vet*. Or to your medbay.

*Meaning, of course, a veterinarian, not someone who has seen active combat; unless the former isn’t available for you.

After credits:

“Wait, ‘wretched degenerate’? I feel great exaggeration in here…”

“Excuse me? You have sneakily entered our base – our safe harbour, so to speak – and hid yourself in another mech’s very private quarters, obviously awaiting his oblivious return. However you want to phrase this, you must admit that it doesn’t look good. Some ill intent in your highly suspicious behaviour is quite evident.”

“What - - Oh, come on! We’re still in war, did you forget? What I wanted from your charming communication officer was just intel, not a piece of him! How can you even imagine this, without flowers an’ stuff?”

“Sadly, I have witnessed many things with my very optics and I can imagine quite a lot. The fact that our war is raging doesn’t mean that – _other_ – types of crimes suddenly ceased to occur. Let me tell you more, wretched Autobot: for some of them the chaos and turbulence of war serves as… mere distraction.”

“Yeah, Hook’s right!”

“What’d you wanna do to our dear Soundwave?”

“Why did you attack his poor Cassetticon?”

“His poor little kitty?”

“That’s Autothrash for ya!”

“Are you proud of yourself, you kitty-strangler?”

“Wait-wait-wait! Please, don’t kill, don’t kill… I’m not this kinda mech, I swear on Prowl’s afterburners!”

“On his _what_?”

“The lil’ kitty attacked me first, and very rightly, of course, for he was protecting his home… And he was a mighty opponent, yeah, lotsa courage for such small frame… But no, I didn’t come here to hurt ‘em, just hoping to overhear somethin’, I swear! I don’t like violence, don’t like crime; I’m as normal as any of you, good mechs!… Vortex, get the frag outta here!”

“He-heh, nice try…”

“Oh, how could you! That’s what happens to the mech just for being good at his job… My spark is profoundly broken!”

“Yeah, sorry I’m not sorry, you psycho. You ever heard the term ‘off-duty’?”

“No-ooo… Is that some strangulation technique?”

“Save the talk for your interrogator, Autobot. Whatever you did and did not intend, or perhaps intended subconsciously, it isn’t our job to determine. And even now everyone can guess who is going to conduct your interrogation.”

“Well, count me out, mechs: this brute’s cruel remark about my person left me deeply shaken and devastated. I can only go lock myself in my berthroom and cry myself to sleep, unfortunately.”

“Huh? But you can’t cry- -”

“It’s a figure of speech, you dolt… Oh, did you hear that? He’s doing it again! This sparkless monster with no consideration to others is tormenting me again! Take me away from him before he’ll damage me any further…”

“Don’t worry, Vortex, we absolutely cannot demand of you to work in such difficult circumstances. How convenient that Soundwave is extremely unlikely to leave this interrogation to anyone but himself.”

“Oh, for the frag’s sa- - You know, it’s very nice to talk to you and all, but could you please gimme back my fingers? I’m gonna need ‘em some time, y’know. Maybe after all of that I’ll meet someone nice enough to reattach ‘em.”

“You heard ‘im, mechs? He said ‘someone nice’... If not Ratchet, then who?”

“Wheeljack, I think. An’ then they explooode…”

“But of course, we’ll give them back, as our dear prisoner wishes – still, we have to do it properly. Vortex, release his right hand.”

“Very fragging funny.”

“Tee-he-he-hee!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my first known version of this story the Doberman was choking on “three male fingers.” If there’s such thing as male fingers, I gather, then why not Autobot fingers?  
> And, as you have possibly noticed by now, it’s not like there’s a lot of dogs amongst Transformers.


	8. HE SMELLED LIKE DEATH WARMED OVER

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, in a way, he was fragged to death.

_Dr Arkeville heard it from Starscream who heard it from Red Alert who heard it from Inferno who heard it from his massager who heard it from Sinnertwin’s mother-in-law who swears it’s all true!_

Long time after departure of Optimus Prime’s and Megatron’s teams life on Cybertron was hard. There was barely enough energy (and energon) for the Decepticon army, the Autobot resistance and for the neutral population. Even Shockwave’s plan of saving and rationing fuel proved vastly inefficient and many ‘bots were starving. Reportedly they were coping with their dire situation in some energon-curdling ways. These are stories hard to believe – just like this one.

Once Moonracer was busy with her usual espionage stuff: spying, infiltrating, eavesdropping, blending in and generally finding out what was going on when she run into a very particular mech. To be precise, she was cautiously checking her surroundings when she heard a pained groan from the nearest trench and almost at the same moment she smelled a rancid odour as if of a decomposing plague victim. The fembot warily drew closer and saw an unfortunate ‘bot half-covered with rubble. He explained weakly that several cycles earlier he had been on a way to his friend’s to deliver a message when he had been hit by a fragmentation grenade and fatally wounded (so, in a way, he was fragged to death). He knew that there was no hope left for him and the only thing that counted now was the message. It was really important, so vital that actually lives were at stake and his last dying wish was for her to deliver it; the address was written on the package.

Unable to let him down in such predicament, she took the parcel and set off but guilt hit her almost immediately. She couldn’t leave without even trying to help him. The Autobot turned back and saw the suffering mech running swiftly in the opposite direction to disappear quickly amongst the debris. Both her feminine intuition and long experience in the warfare told her that such behaviour of the mortally wounded was highly suspicious. She sniffed the air again and finally remembered that this particular foul odour was the inglorious trademark of Terrorcon Blot. Now she was pretty sure that he was up to something shadowy even for Decepticon standards and potentially luring her into trap. This couldn’t be; but would it be better to head to the place promptly and storm it alone or leave it to the authorities?

Fortunately, being too busy with her current mission she decided to notify the authorities. Namely, she approached a group of enforcers who two blocks away were questioning Chromia and Firestar about great quantities of ammunition the fembots had on them. Straight-faced, she told them about the dying-yet-running mech and expressed her suspicions. It was enough of distraction for Chromia and Firestar to sneak away. Left with nothing better to do, the Decepticons took the ill-fated parcel and headed to the place Blot originally had sent Moonracer to.

And they came slagging near to disappearing there, had it not been twice as much of them as normally needed on a patrol. They say these were two separate units who just decided to join forces out of boredom to find and pester someone together. Others say that due to their generally low energy levels more enforcers were required to act with sufficient, well, force. The others say that the Decepticons were so fragging scared of the resistance that none of them would as much as peek outside without at least five comrades as backup.

Numerous or not, upon entering the desolate building the enforcers got shocked and – despite of being Decepticons and all – scared witless and scarred for life. For they discovered literally piles of bodies the Terrorcons were cutting for scrap, bleeding from energon with the intention to sell it on black market to unaware customers, and simply eating. And when they finally opened the parcel from Blot they found a plain datapad saying:

“This is the last one I’m sending you today. And don’t forget to leave something for me you ugly fraggers!”

They say that the Terrorcons were punished with slap on the wrist and everything was covered up. They also say that this atrocity was what finally convinced Shockwave to take more drastic measures. Soon, sector after sector, the starving neutral populace was directed to secured bunkers and put in stasis, awaiting better times. Then the one-opticed guardian started suspending the Decepticon soldiers after they had wiped out enough of the resistance. With no choice left the Autobots were going into stasis as well. Finally, the only ‘bots left to roam Cybertron were Shockwave, Alpha Trion and the female Autobots – haunted by nightmarish memories of depression and hunger so great that even fellow Cybertronians could become fuel.

  
  


Source: <https://www.snopes.com/fact-check/letter-of-intent/>

  
  



	9. JUST SOME WEIRD EXPENSIVE SLAG OR SOMETHIN’...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “My, my, Long Haul! I didn’t know that you eat slag...”

_Soundwave heard it from Shockwave who heard it from Chromia who heard it from Ironhide who heard it from this Empty who heard it from that dead guy who swears it’s all true!_

Once, in a briefest period of time, there were seven Constructicons: upon arriving to join the already prominent team, Bonecrusher brought along his brother Gravedigger. This latest addition proved as beneficial to them all as a cyber-monkey wrench thrown in the delicate works due to Gravedigger’s uncontrollable feats of rage. Not like Bonecrusher was a stoic himself – he was everything but, however, as a demolitionist he would rather tear apart buildings than people. Gravedigger had no such opportunities to vent. He and Long Haul saw more fist to fist than optic to optic. Mixmaster kept slipping vast quantities of sedatives into his energon (to no avail) and openly making dark remarks about offlining him for good. After seeing his apparently pristine processor Hook and Scrapper flat out refused to deal with his inexcusable antics. Scavenger would spend most of work quite unproductively: hiding.

Bonecrusher run out of excuses even faster than Gravedigger did of last chances and finally Scrapper presented him with a choice to either stay and fulfil his potential unburdened by his unruly brother or leave with him and go to Pit. Hard as it was, Bonecrusher finally came to conclusion that some bonds grow stronger with distance and thus Gravedigger had to go. Not without good will, the Constructicons used their connections to land the problematic mech in a quiet spot in Iacon, teaming him up with some other builders who promised to keep him out of trouble. This worked out perfectly – Bonecrusher finally could focus on his work without worrying about the construction site practically falling apart around him and Gravedigger for once was happy with his life. He claimed that Iacon was nice even though expensive, the job was challenging but not too stressful, the colleagues supportive and he even started seeing someone to work out his anger management… What was that ‘bot’s name? Ring? Rang? Wrung? Something ringing anyway.

Never the one to read subtle signs, Gravedigger seemed quite unaware that Scrapper’s team got rid of him hastily like of a scraplet-infested drone and he was quite sure that all these great favours were made out of friendship. Not bothering to correct him, the Constructicons learnt about yet another benefit of this situation when the grateful exile started sending them packages all the way to Kaon. This way they could finally get their hands on certain more luxurious goods unavailable on the spot like finer polish, turbofox-shaped sponges, Primus-awfully expensive tiny energon treats for industrial frames or softer non-wire based brushes. Yeah… Their job paid well but Kaon _was_ Pit. In some spots literally. Venues couldn’t be trusted. Energon couldn’t be trusted. People couldn’t be trusted. There was gossip about some shady underground political movements. They didn’t even go out for a drink anymore and spent most of their limited free time in their spacious yet shoddy apartment – still a better place, in a better company and with better drinks than the city could offer.

And one such day after work Bonecrusher answered the door and received a small parcel from Iacon containing even smaller vial of energon mixed unevenly with something dark and thick. Bonecrusher smiled fondly, his spark warming. In the rare moments when he wasn’t eager to kill everybody, his brother was even more eager to please. The lack of any label on a bottle or a letter in the package was weird, but again, not unusual. Not at all worried by the thought that the sample might had been sneaked out while Gravedigger had been called for repairs to some rich-aft mech’s place, the demolishionist cheerfully grabbed a set of their smallest glasses (actually washed-up grease jars; nothing smaller than cubes to obtain in Kaon) and approached the rest of his team scattered around the undecorated living room, their frames still radiating warmth after the thorough shower.

Long Haul appeared passed out on a couch, finally quiet and immobile. Seated on the very same coach, Scavenger was poking lazily some pieces of rock he planted on a table before him. Scrapper, workaholic as always, was hunched on a chair over some blueprints. On another coach, Mixmaster was busy peering into his datapad; a vicious smile indicating that whatever chemical formula for the evening he was working on it would promise beautiful colours or a mighty hangover the day after. And next to him Hook – head resting on a backrest, optics offlined – too tired to even come over to Scrapper and pick on imperfections in his project.

“Hey, guys!” Bonecrusher entered and announced happily, lifting the vial for everyone to see. “Look what we got from Iacon!”

It worked like a magic spell: all the tired sprung up to awareness, all the occupied suddenly lost interest; all their optics resting on the tiny bottle in Bonecrusher’s big hand. Hmm… Tiny liquidy things from Iacon promised two things: to be awfully costly and even more potent. After a long day on a site, dealing with unfriendly mechs and even more unfriendly surroundings, this little piece of the outer world was all the more tempting.

“Bring it on,” Scrapper made for them the quick final decision. Grinning, Bonecrusher set everything on a small side table between Mixmaster and Hook and poured the darkened energon into makeshift glasses to be quickly distributed across the room. The jars were really small but there was barely enough of it to cover their bottoms.

“Huh,” sitting up, Long Haul retracted his mask and gave his glass a swing. “What’s that?”

Bonecrusher straightened himself back on the other side of the table where Scavenger put his collection on and shrugged. “Dunno. Just some weird expensive slag or somethin’… Who knows what those rich afts put in their tanks to feel better’n the rest of us.” He exchanged looks with Long Haul and agitated Scavenger, nodded to them and all three downed their glasses.

“And?” The other three (apparently the smarter half) observed them cautiously.

“Um...” after a brief moment Scavenger rapidly closed his mask to hide his grimace while desperately looking for words that simply weren’t there. “Well, it’s really… It’s really, um...”

Long Haul made a face and put his glass down with a thud. “It _really_ tastes like slag,” he complained.

“Ern...” Bonecrusher decided that he ought to say something but his plan only brought him this far.

“My, my, Long Haul,” Mixmaster rose his glass to his optics and gave the energon a lazy swish, smirking. “I didn’t know that you eat slag... Because, otherwise, how would you know what it tastes like?”

Long Haul vented angrily. “Yeah, right, every other day, breakfast an’ lunch,” he grunted.

“Reeeally? Such dedication! You must describe it to me for, oh, scientific purpose, for even _I_ have never gone that far,” the chemist teased. “Does it taste different in the morning and in the mid-cycle?”

“Very!”

“What energon goes best with slag?”

Scrapper covered his already masked mouth trying to stifle his chuckle. The rest was too wary to feel amused.

“Yer energon on my knuckles serves me best!” was the hauler’s gritted response.

“And what additives do you prefer with your slag?”

“It… It don’t sound too professional, Mixie,” Bonecrusher finally collected himself a little. “Um… It seems that Gravedigger just saw this thingy an’ bought it fer us,” he assumed. “Only’s not really that good.”

“Not-that-good,” Long Haul’s utter disgust subtly indicated it was a slight understatement. “Know what? Tell yer idiot brother that if he wants botherin’ us with his stupid gifts he better fraggin’ test ‘em first!”

“Wha...” Bonecrusher went quickly from ashamed to defensive. “Whoa! That was low. You want ‘im buy two-piece of this scrap, ‘Haul, one for him an’ one fer us? For what, slag an’ giggles? You know he lives in one **room** with **two** other mechs an’ it still takes half his credits!” he reminded bitterly. “An’ mai’tenance, an’ taxes, licences, his blastin’ shrink, an’ it would be nice to have fuel from time to time – these things ain’t cheap in slaggin’ Iacon!”

“We know it, ‘Crusher, we know...” Scavenger reassured him meekly and was entirely ignored.

“Frag knows how much overtime he put to buy this lil’ slaggin’ flask fer us, ‘cause he thought we’ll like it an’ you want ‘im make it double? And even if…” Bonecrusher run into a little difficulty with formulating his thoughts. “Even if...”

“Even if what?” the hauler demanded.

“An’ even if he tested it first, this slag for elite mechs, an’ he found it weird he’d still think we’ll like it… ‘Cause Gravedigger thinks us these mechs, he looks up to us! Maybe not up to you, ‘Haul,” he distinguished. “So what it tasted funny? He ain’t have to do that, he just wanted to be nice!”

“Nice?” Long Haul sneered. “Tell ya who really was nice – we were for not puttin’ this idiot into one of Scrapper’s ‘projects’!”

“Slag ye!” Bonecrusher’s optics positively flared with rage. He would topple the table and get to the unsympathetic interlocutor if it hadn’t been for Scavenger throwing himself against the larger Constructicon.

“Wait, wait!” he pleaded. “Hedidntmeanit, hedidntmeanit!” The attacker came to a halt feeling this small yet significant weigh on himself. “Of course it is very nice of Gravedigger, we know he doesn’t have to and we really appreciate what he...”

“Yeah, didn’t mean it,” Long Haul confirmed nastily. “Scrapper’d never want ‘im in anythin’.”

“Yer dead scrap!” Bonecrusher grabbed the wriggling geologist, ready to lift him and put aside to gain free access to the offender. Scavenger doubled his wriggling immediately.

“Nonono, ’Crusher, please! Can’t you see he’s just baiting you, you’re better than...”

“Outta my way, Scavvy, or help me I’ll scrap you too!”

“Silence.”

They momentarily stopped the incoming brawl and turned to the opposite side of the room where Hook raised gracefully one slender arm to hush them, optics set on a foul shot in his glass. Then, he downed it hastily and a bit less exquisitely and immediately started analysing the beverage, his face too collected to indicate what he was thinking of the taste. Next to him Mixmaster did the same without any pretence to elegance and frowned, deep in thought.

“Oh,” the surgical engineer gave out with a subtle surprise. “In this energon I can trace numerous substances normally not intended for consumption, such as...”

“Rust,” Mixmaster enumerated. “Corrosion. Acids. And-and-and… Living metal?” His frown deepened.

“No fraggin’ way!” Long Haul burst into laughter. “They were handin’ this stuff fer free after brewer’d fallen into the vat?” The rest appeared equally unaffected by the grim revelation. Mixmaster used to, well, mix weirder stuff into their after-work cocktails.

“Mmm...”

All the helms turned to Scrapper who was lounging on the chair with his visor dark – hugging lovingly the blueprints and literally purring with contentment, a huge smile on his exposed face. There was an empty glass in his hand.

“Why is he creepy?” Scavenger peeked from behind Bonecrusher and whispered nervously. He wasn’t the only one willing to know.

“Scrapper...?” Alerted, Hook nearly rose and run to him. “Are you… Poisoned?”

“Are you high?” Mixmaster chuckled.

The Constructicon leader slowly onlined his optics and looked at the two, delighted as ever.

“Do you remember that time, after a plague, when that folks near Hellex had us build a wall around catacombs?” He asked, nostalgic. “And after they refused to pay we returned at night, dragged all the corpses out and decorated the wall with their rotting bits and pieces?” It was so, so juvenile and in such an extraordinarily bad taste and never failed to make the brilliant architect’s spark swell with pride.

“Wha…?” Petrified, Bonecrusher looked quizzically at his nearest friends. In response Scavenger embraced himself, assaulted by memories.

“Heheh, yeah,” Long Haul simply shrugged. “Ye **don’t** cross Scrapper.”

Scavenger visibly shivered.

“Yes, we remember,” Hook concurred warily, still filled with concern. “But why are you bringing…?”

The rest of the question died on his lips when Scrapper gave him the smuggest slag-eating grin.

“This stuff tastes exactly like that thing smelled.”

“Hey, you’re right,” Mixmaster giggled madly. “Feels just like being there all again! Good old times...”

“Oh,” Hook vented faintly. “I’m glad you like it...”

“Are you kidding? It’s the best awful thing one can wish to get!”

“Well, I’m… glad. Are you… sure you’re not poisoned?”

“Nah, I’m good,” Scrapper waved a hand dismissively and turned to his left. “’Crusher!” Bonecrusher nearly jumped at his sudden attention. “Are you sure the name of this thing is nowhere to be found?” Slaggit, he was ready to track it and buy a stash, no matter the cost. It was bad in the best of ways.

“Ern... Yeah,” Bonecrusher stated weakly. “There’s nothin’ in the box and nothin’ on the bottle...”

Well, no problem with that. He would have to just ask Gravedigger. But again, it would take time.

“Are you **really** sure?” He asked nicely and had the demolitionist fidgeting.

“Y… No?” His subordinate offered weakly. “Can go ‘n’ check… If you like?”

“Yes,” Scrapper grinned again and made him flinch. “That would be really nice.”

Resigned to his leader’s fancies, Hook raised the emptied bottle to his scrutinizing gaze.

“I think I have seen this somewhere,” he assumed. “It’s some kind of medical vial… There are traces of glue on the bottom; perhaps the label or some other information was stuck there previously and got lost.”

“Very well,” Scrapper gladly accepted this deduction. Hook nodded delicately with a barely visible smile.

“Um, lost? Yeah, very well! I, ern… Just go an’ check it out, okay?” Bonecrusher rushed from the room, eager as ever to obey his boss.

And indeed, there was a small datapad lying near the door – probably fallen out the moment Bonecrusher had extracted the vial from the box upon receiving. “Yeah, I got it!” he called happily, switched the pad on and started perusing the short message on his way back to the living room. It surely was Gravedigger’s sloppy handwriting – even more messy than usual as if scribbled in a great hurry.

With every sentence read Bonecrusher’s steps got slower and his hold on the letter looser.

  
  


_Hey Bro!_

_What’s up? With us everything’s good. Got new gigs and stuff. New fun spots to repair and we even built something! Didn’t beat somebody in cycles, don’t worry. Finally got new clench bolt and now slag’s easier. Hope your slag’s easy too!_

_Only not that good cause it’s two of us now. Landbot says he don’t care and to pay the whole rent or get out but okay. We manage I think. ‘S only two cycles and fragger already gave us Pit. Like’s our fault._

_And it’s two of us cause on one gig in laboretry Erector fell on something. This something was totally eating him. Scoop and I did all we can but poor mech still died before cycle ended. And it was eating him even after that. And now we feel funny. Can’t go to medic cause this job was confidincial. So y’know, we really-really want to know what is that slag and if we’re gonna get eaten too._

_Hope that y’all okay and stuff, no deadly fraggotry or something. Say hello to your mechs and tell Mixmaster I can get him that alkali-thingy, I know where they sell this scrap. Course if I live. Cause maybe I don’t._

_Love, Gravedigger._

_P.S. Here’s all we got from poor Erector before he became all scrappy and goo-y. Please ASAP give it to Hook or Mixmaster for tests, we REALLY wanna know!_

Remember, girls: if your family from afar sent you something deliciously mysterious, before gobbling it down make sure it’s not somebody’s remains! Or at least eat only a half to have another half left for medical tests and funerals...

  
  


Source:[ https://www.snopes.com/fact-check/the-spice-of-life/](https://www.snopes.com/fact-check/the-spice-of-life/)

Concise version:

So, yeah, this story is pretty lengthy, and rich in details, and going out of its way to present all the facts and characters justly and in a balanced way… Obviously, it’s not how urban legends are formed and passed on. Here, grab a short version of the story that was actually told amongst Cybertronians:

There were seven Constructicons in Kaon, struggling and barely getting by. After vorns and vorns of saving they finally managed to send one of them to Iacon to have a better life and in exchange support them back at home. And so the emigrant Constructicon did, sending them credits together with products none of struggling mechs of Kaon could otherwise access: various kinds of energon that tasted so much better than the disgusting low-quality swill they were forced to live on, cleaning solution so poor chaps could finally clean themselves on rare occasions, or some green paint so they were able to touch their paintjobs from time to time and look better than most of their neighbours who resembled residents of scrapyard.

One day, they received a parcel from Iacon containing a weird tiny flask with some energon in it, and an official-looking letter. Since none of them could read, they decided to later take the letter to their foremech to read it to them as usual for one foul drink or two; now they had a flask of energon to utilize. For every time they received energon from Iacon it was for them to drink, they did just that with the contents of tiny flask. Even though it was very little of it and it tasted like nothing, they were still happy to have something out of the ordinary.

The next decacycle, they finally got their foremech to read them the letter. As they found out, their emigrant teammate died in an accident and per custom a flask of his innermost energon was sent to his team back home for funeral.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo, to make a very bad pun even badder: the Constructicons ended up unwittingly drinking Erector’s bodily fluids.  
> You know, I really got to like Gravedigger. Pity he most probably hadn’t made it...  
> And I SWEAR, when I wrote it nobody expected the worldwide pandemic, Scrapper mentioning their morbid post-epidemic gig is just a coincidence, Decepticon scout’s honour!


	10. THEN WHO COULD HAVE POSSIBLY BEEN ON THE OTHER LINE?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What the title sez

So Cyclonus is with his honey and they make out wen his comm. pings. He answer it n the voice is:

“wut r u doing wit my lieutenant?”

So he sez: “Optimus Prime just commd me bout u LOL!”

N Ultra Magnus say: “Optimus Prime is ded”.

THEN WHO WAS COMM.?

Source: <https://creepypasta.fandom.com/wiki/WHO_WAS_PHONE%3F>

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who was comm. indeed. Personally, my money would be on certain evil zombie.


	11. NO, YOU MOVE!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s Prime’s trailer – the choice is yours!”

_Chase heard it from Freeway who heard it from Rollbar who heard it from Searchlight who heard it from Wideload. It is rumoured that they were all tracked down and deactivated by Onslaught, but it was too late – the story had already spread!_

During a moderately important mission to bring information and supplies to the Decepticon outpost on a smallish metallic-ish space-station-ish planet called by some Zeta-Centauri, so happened that commander Onslaught himself was in charge of the huge high-level-of-threat space Destroyer accompanied by three smaller slightly-lower-level-of-threat space Destroyers, several shuttleformers carrying supplies, and occasional space-faring Seekers that were sent on said mission. Obviously, the commander was far from thrilled about being burdened with such a tiresome and little-significant assignment instead of staying with the High Command and devising their strategy, but orders were orders. Additionally, he had heard that the commanding officer of that post was known for his malice and obstinacy, therefore the deeper into the mission, the more did Onslaught prepare himself to put any troublemakers in their place and take nonsense from no one. This and the fact that this part of the galaxy was utterly strange to them and left no room for strategy and planning, generously contributed to the grim mood shared by the commander and his entire crew.

The apathy of a long journey was partially subdued when the high-level-of-threat space Destroyer’s pilot informed the commander about an incoming obstacle.

“There is another space-faring Cybertronian unit right in front of us, that has been cloaked until now,” he dutifully reported. “We’re heading on a collision in approximately ten breems. Advised course of action? Maybe I will check the map to see where can we- -”

Onslaught frowned giving away sinister vibes as much as a masked and visored mech frowning could. To the pilot’s dismay he positioned himself right behind his chair and requested calmly and coldly:

“Patch me through. I will talk with this ‘unit’.”

The communication officer did as was told and after some buzzing and screeching the audial connection was established. To the pilot’s even further dismay, the commander loomed over putting one hand on his backrest and demanded:

“Decepticon ship speaking. Divert your course to far side to avoid a collision.”

There was a moment of nervous silence and then, through the buzzing and screeching, they could hear a slightly distorted and certainly grating voice recommending:

“No. YOU divert your course to avoid a collision.”

Terrified pilot hunched in his spot, feeling as his backrest was being nearly torn off by the commander’s angry grip. The communication officer was similarly frozen in his place.

Onslaught’s voice was polite and cold as the space around them.

“There must be some miscommunication on your part. This is commander of Decepticon Destroyer. Divert your course and remove yourselves from OUR path.”

Another moment of loaded silence, too stretched and too brisk simultaneously, and the line spoke.

“No, YOU Divert your course and remove YOURSELVES from our path.”

Entire crew hunched in their places, as if expecting to get hit. The ill-fated pilot could hear and feel his very chair disintegrating under the mighty hands of his infuriated commander. All those cycles of strenuous and seemingly insignificant journey, comparing this ordeal to his usual glorious tasks, considering options, steaming, seething… The pilot’s seat was torn off and thrown behind together with its terrified occupant. Seeing red even more than usual, Onslaught leant on the console as if trying to intimidate the only-heard and not-visible opponent. The console bent and sizzled in protest.

“You absolute fool! This is the class-3 Decepticon space Destroyer »Prime’s Demise« accompanied by three class-5 Decepticon space Destroyers, seven combat shuttles and numerous armed Seekers and NONE of these will move from our designated path! Divert your course or suffer the consequences!”

Another moment of silence passed, filled with screeching, buzzing and expectations, and the distant voice stated:

“This is Zeta-Centauri. Your choice.”

Source:[ https://www.snopes.com/fact-check/the-obstinate-lighthouse/](https://www.snopes.com/fact-check/the-obstinate-lighthouse/)

After credits:

No, it was definitely not easy to accept him as one of us again. Even under normal circumstances such long separation would make reconnecting demanding at best. However, there was another disconcerting element wedged between him and the rest of us. And I am not talking about him trying to kill us all – twice – because, honestly, who were we to judge him? It was this other thing, this  _rumour_ that would forever set us on opposing sides. We perceived it as facetious, he did not.

That night there were the five of us in one off-world base, seemingly finding better understanding of each other and working towards better cooperation and battle synchronisation in the future. Actually, like good Decepticons, we engaged in the Earth-originating game of poker. After several rounds we banned playing for money before that cheating nerd Scrapper would end up with all our credits. Nonetheless, taking the gambling part out seemed to deprive the game of half of its charm and nothing could sufficiently replace it. Drinking game? We ran out of high grade. Strip poker? And then that cunning Scrapper would make off with our parts. And we were to uncoordinated to build structures out of cards – which, again, would be entertaining solely for Scrapper, that cheater.

Finally, he had to proceed to do exactly that as Motormaster was watching and me – being me – was busy with chewing scenery, so to speak. If comes to Razorclaw and Onslaught, well, they decided on some variation of “truth or dare” where dares were not entirely an option and the truth was not necessarily required. And by saying this I mean no offence to Scrapper and his card-wielding skills, the cheater, but that game between the two was moderately more interesting than his card-made Cybertron.

Razorclaw and Onslaught had situated themselves at the two opposing ends of the table; probably due to the lack of genuine affection between them. It was a weird game, too, in this respect that Razorclaw was constantly asking and Onslaught was continuously replying.

“Have you tried to kill Lord Megatron?”

“Yes.”

“Did you try to throw entire planet into its sun?”

“Yes.”

“Lord Megatron included?”

“Yes.”

It certainly was not a friendly game. Razorclaw was enjoying it way too much, silly spark, while Onslaught was increasingly hostile and downright furious.

“Have your soldiers ever question your leadership?”

“Yes.”

“Have they ever rebelled against your indolence?”

“Yes.”

“Have your strategy ever come out as garbage?”

“Yes!”

Every subsequent query, no matter how damning or ludicrous, was answered affirmatively. It quickly became obvious that Onslaught in reality did not care about these questions.

“Did you interface your way through higher ranks?”

“Yes!”

It was apparent that he was confirming everything he was asked about in order to answer negatively to one final question he was expecting to receive. And we were expecting to hear it as well, for it was bound to appear in every prolonged interaction with Onslaught:

“Did you really tell _the planet_ to move out of your way?”

That was it. The final moment this whole intercourse was leading to. Scrapper stopped building, Motormaster stopped commenting how he would build it and how his team would ruin it, even my jaws stopped working, ha-hah. Onslaught was visibly fuming and hackling like Starscream who got belittled one time too many. Only, compared to our Combaticon, Starscream was more of a trinket than an actual war machine. Therefore Onslaught rose menacingly like Bruticus himself, exclaimed a powerful “NOOO!” and lounged forward, for Razorclaw’s dear life.

At this place it should be mentioned that this scenery-chewing of mine was, well, to some extent literal. After we had run out of snacks and anything edible, I felt compelled to turn to things that were not edible, but entertaining nevertheless. One of my latest ‘victims’ was that very table. To be precise, I snacked on its leg which by the moment of game’s violent climax was pretty much no longer existing. Onslaught’s very elaborate plan evidently consisted of jumping on the table and from there on launching a further attack against our overconfident Predacon friend. However, in its current state the table simply was not able to hold his weight and our raging colleague went down as quickly as he previously went up.

Danger was averted, but it was ready to resurface in a matter of seconds. In order to save poor old Razorclaw we all sprung to action. There the three of us – THREE gestalt leaders – could barely contain absolutely rioting Onslaught. That silly spark Razorclaw joined as well to our impromptu ‘gestalt pile’ after it was obvious that our raving Combaticon companion could no longer muster enough energy to threat a glitchmouse. He would occasionally snarl and curse, of course, yet nobody got alerted or offended since for us Decepticons such pleasantries are as natural as smalltalk would be for those wretched Autobots.

And then Motormaster cracked a joke. It was simply: “Hey, imagine it saying ‘It’s Prime’s trailer – the choice is yours’!” This ended it. We spent indefinite time in that lovely pile, unable to leave this arrangement and, as they say, laughing our afts off.

Let me kindly remind you, dear Reader, that right at that moment we were a bunch of roughed-up soldiers, overcharged from vigorous brawl and some not-moderate amounts of high grade, at the end of disputably eerie evening… In spite of Motormaster’s obsession with the Autobot leader being increasingly, well, tiring, and in spite of the rest of us being highly cultured and usually preferring more sophisticated means of entertainment, at that moment that done-to-death jest worked perfectly. We entered the floor divided and we left it united, thanks Primus and our saviour Lord Megatron.

_Hun-Grr’s Merry Memoirs_ , vol. 35, 47th edition, prefaced by Bob Budiansky and illustrated by Nick Roche.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted something specially for Ons and man, isn’t this fitting!  
> The guys at the top that allegedly got this story out are Throttlebots (I left out the last one, whose name is, you won’t believe it, Throttlebot). Given that one of the things that happened to them is freaking Sixshot, those guys are said to be quite unfortunate, so obviously, I added a vengeful Combaticon leader to their plight – they shouldn’t mind at this point, they’re dead scrap either way...


	12. I KILL MECHS, YO!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Doncha do it at home, kids!

_Everyone who counts was there and they won’t talk about it. Unless offered high grade. Then they’ll talk the slag out of it!_

Assorted AUTOBOTS and DECEPTICONS are gathered somewhere desolate, scattered, seemingly waiting for some plot contrivance to resolve their current conflict.

Noone is doing anything.

Nothing happens.

Suddenly, VORTEX emerges nonchalantly from a comfortable spot behind his comrades and in idle strides reaches bored and unamused THRUST to subsequently stab him with his favoured laser scalpel. After seconds long like in some shower scene™ the lifeless Conehead lifelessly falls to the ground, where his lifeless frame is bound to remain for some lifeless time.

Everybody is moderately shocked and scandalised for maybe half a minute and then their reactions give way to the inescapable boredom of their current unresolved situation.

VORTEX starts swaying and doing... Things with his scalpel. And whatever it is he’s doing with it, it sure as scrap shouldn’t look so hot.

  
  


VORTEX

_This was never the way I planned, not my intention,  
I got so brave, blade in hand, lost my discretion;  
It's not what I'm used to, just wanna try it on,  
I'm curious for him, caught my attention…  
_

IRONHIDE

Yeah, like frag…

VORTEX

_I killed a mech and I liked it,  
His frame all gray and static,  
I killed a mech just to try it,  
I hope my boss don't mind it…_

ONSLAUGHT *shrugs*

  
VORTEX

_It felt so wrong,  
It felt so right,  
Don't mean I'm in love tonight!  
I killed a mech and I liked it- -_

RATCHET _sarcastic_

Tell us more about it- -

VORTEX  
 _I liked it!_

SIDESWIPE

That’s sick!

SUNSTREAKER

It’s poetry.

SIDESWIPE *carefully moves away from his twin*

VORTEX *sways and has fun*

_I killed a mech and I liked it!  
His frame all gray and static,  
I killed a mech just to try it,  
I hope my crush don't mind it…  
_

BLAST OFF

Clean this mess!

FIRST AID _at the same time_

I don’t mind it!

BLAST OFF and FIRST AID *look at each other, surprised*

ONSLAUGHT, BRAWL, SWINDLE, WILDRIDER, DRAG STRIP, SCAVENGER, HOOK, LONG HAUL, THUNDERCRACKER, SKYWARP, STARSCREAM, SOUNDWAVE, MEGATRON, BLADES, SUNSTREAKER, JAZZ, WHEELJACK, OPTIMUS PRIME and BUMBLEBEE *wisely remain quiet*

VORTEX

_It felt so wrong,  
It felt so right,  
Don't mean I'm on a spree tonight;  
I killed a mech just to try it,  
I hope my friends don't mind it…  
_

SWINDLE and BRAWL *discreetly maneuver to hide behind Breakdown, who currently is Menasor’s leg; they get playfully kicked out*

VORTEX

_Don’t mind it!  
_   
_No, I don't even know his name, it doesn't matter,  
It’s my experimental game, just robot nature…  
It's not what good mechs do, not how they should behave –  
My head gets so confused, hard to obey…_

HOOK _mockingly_

Decepticon who _kills_? How unheard of…

 _sneakily_ Give me that corpse!

  
VORTEX

_I killed a mech and I liked it,  
His frame all gray and static,  
I killed a mech just to try it,  
I hope my lord don't mind it!_

MEGATRON *rolls his optics*

STARSCREAM

If _I_ were the leader of the Decepticons - -

VORTEX

_It felt so wrong,  
It felt so right,  
Don't mean I'm on it tonight…  
I killed a mech and I liked it,  
I liked it!_

SOUNDWAVE

Repetition: unnecessary. Operation: variation.

VORTEX *some change in his swaying*

_Us mechs, we are so breakable,  
Hard to resist, destructable,  
Energon leaks all over you –   
Too good to deny it;  
Ain't no big deal, it's innocent!_

JAZZ *chuckles*

PROWL *facepalms*

  
VORTEX *sways and the works* _  
_

 _I killed a mech and I liked it,  
His frame all gray and static,  
I killed a mech just to try it,  
I hope the Prime _does _mind it…_

OPTIMUS PRIME _firmly_

Actually, I don’t. You can kill whoever the Pit you like as long as they’re Decepticon.

DECEPTICONS *stunned silence*

SCAVENGER

B-but… You’re supposed to be good, ain’t you?

CLIFFJUMPER *sneers*

Look at them all, thinking that being good and being nice is the same thing!

MEGATRON

Why, isn’t it obvious? Different symbols, different names, different sides, but at the end of the day we are exactly the same, Prime.

OPTIMUS PRIME

I have no idea what you’re blabbering about, Megatron.

MEGATRON *laughs evilly*

Of course you don’t, Prime, of course you don’t…

OPTIMUS PRIME

Your demented insinuations are getting old faster than arm cannons are getting out of fashion, Megatron.

MEGATRON

Of course, of course… As long as they remain mere insinuations…

SOME AUTOBOTS *look for some comfortable place to sit and wait through another never-ending bickering match*

INSECTICONS *start chewing on nearby nuclear plant and some protesting locals*

SKYWARP *starts thinking of a prank*

STARSCREAM *starts thinking of shooting MEGATRON in the back*

OPTIMUS PRIME

I am absolutely not having this conversation with you right now, or ever.

IRONHIDE

Yeah, we’d rather beat the slag out of you, as usual!

BLUESTREAK

Out of you and your freakish little killer!

VORTEX *sways one more time and BLUESTREAK is suddenly out of words*

MEGATRON

Be my guest, Prime.

*turns to his High Command* Decepticons, retreat!

ASSORTED DECEPTICONS *get off and retreat*

THRUST *gets off and retreats with the rest – not without little assistance, of course*

Source: A certain squishy called [Katy Perry](https://genius.com/Katy-perry-i-kissed-a-girl-lyrics)

So remember girls: Curiosity is good, but it shouldn’t be satisfied no matter the price. Even if it’s just a Conehead; for some people it would be crossing the line.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was Vortex actually singing? I won’t claim anything, you judge for yourselves...


	13. SHORTEST HORROR STORY

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What, really? A summary for that?

Shockwave – the last mech on Cybertron – sat alone in his base.

There was a knock to his door.

Source: <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Knock_(short_story)>

After credits:

Aaand, of course, the line that followed was: “Female Autobots? I thought they were extinct!”

Or, at least, that’s what was officially reported to Megatron.

They were coexisting on the planet for millions of years and had never-ever met before.

Not even once.

Elita-1 backed up his statement.

Very firmly.

Very, very, _very_ firmly.

Actually, nobody even asked her about it.

But here it was.

The remaining fembots chuckled.


	14. THE SCREAM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soundwave, of course, would say nothing about it and it wasn’t like anyone wanted to ask him, to hear him out.

_A cute little bat heard it from a sweet little birdie who heard it from a lovely little birdie who heard it from a pretty little kitty who heard it from an ador(k)able little ‘copter who swears it’s all true!_

Soundwave wasn’t known for his overreactive nature. Actually, he probably came as close to “stoic and restrained” as one could get. Many thought that he wasn’t even capable of feeling any emotions aside from some non-explicit “loyal to Megatron”, “fighting the Autobots” or “Hands off my Cassettes, you fragging pieces of scrap!”. He could laugh, yes, some poor sparks bore witness, but the popular belief had it that he would use it rather as a psychological weapon than a mood indicator. And, surely, things bothering normal mechs wouldn’t bother this epitome of composure; he was the one to be creepy, after all, not the one to be creeped out. That is, until the day when they heard Soundwave scream.

It did not sound pretty.

He was in contact with the Seekers at that moment and upon hearing him, one of them fell into the ocean and two others collided, so bad for them. Due to their unusual bond all his Cassettes could hear him internally while on their respective missions and they freaked the Pit out, so tough for them. At the same time he was coordinating the Stunticons in synchronisation with the Seekers, and hearing him they lost their grip on the road, on their own (doubtful at best) sanity and on reality itself and ended up in a smoking Stunti-pile atop some skyscraper, so way to go for them. He was monitoring the bridge and in a critical moment some funny things resulted from several mechs losing their slag in the area of very sensitive and very crucial instruments – like power blackouts, anti-Insecticon alerts (right as they had invited Shrapnel over to negotiate some future alliance, oops...) or the Coneheads getting sealed off for quarantine – so the joke was on them all. Finally, Megatron had chosen this particular moment to check on him via this very restricted communication network, so everyday you learn something new about your lifetime subordinates and your super-costly equipment, eh?

There were also whispers that the entire event got recorded but, as one could assume with the Decepticon top communication specialist, the recording ceased to exist without a tiniest trace. Unfortunately. Only second-hand relation presented by the Cassetticons could give the rest of the Decepticons any idea of what happened to Soundwave. They wouldn’t say who told them all about it though. Soundwave, of course, would say _nothing_ about it and it wasn’t like anyone wanted to ask him, to _hear_ him out.

Apparently, he was sitting in his communication centre, busy with contacting the Seekers, reaching out for his Cassettes, coordinating the Stunticons, monitoring the bridge and being watched by his Supreme Commander at the same time. Difficult for anyone else, lazy afternoon for Soundwave. Still, he got immersed enough in his work to not immediately notice a gentle weigh on his lap. He couldn’t see what it was, obscured by a console and everything on the console, but there was no reason to panic, right?

That had to be Ravage. Who else would be so sneaky and silent and so endearingly bold? Tired with espionage and hiding from attention, he simply wanted to be close to his understanding boss. Having something to report, perhaps, but seeing Soundwave occupied he simply decided to wait for the right moment. Yes, that was it. It definitely had to be Ravage. Who else could it be?

Of course, Soundwave could always reach through their bond and see whether the feline technimal’s current place of occupation matched the spot under the console, but why bother him? What if he was tired or simply enjoying being left the frag alone? And it had to be Ravage because… Darkish paintjob: check (yes, he could know the colours without seeing them). Purring: check. General playful yet dangerous vibes: check. This wonderful feeling of coziness a pet radiates around a person they know: check. Cuteness all over the place: check. And, really, who else could it possibly be?

Yes, when he thought about it (in the middle of all this contacting, checking out, coordinating, monitoring and being scrutinized), something seemed a bit off. Namely, the weight appeared bigger than it should as well as the sheer volume of… And the position of paws seemed different and… Nothing alarming, really… But where was the tail? Still, no, all of this could be easily explained.

Maybe Ravage got an upgrade. Thicker armour or something. Maybe he adorned himself with something for the fun of it, because felines. Maybe Rumble and Frenzy adorned him with something and he didn’t want to talk about it, because felines. Maybe he brought something with him with no intention to discuss it right away because… Yeah. Really, there were plenty of explanations why the weigh and the shape on his lap seemed a bit off. Nothing urgent. If Ravage had something to say about it he would do it at the proper time and bothering him now would be rude, so Soundwave resumed his work and left his company be.

He absentmindedly stroked a little kitty on his lap and his hand found rotors.

Then Soundwave screamed and jumped on the console.

  
  


Source:[ https://www.snopes.com/fact-check/the-mexican-pet/](https://www.snopes.com/fact-check/the-mexican-pet/)

  
  


Ah, those pets! So cute and yet so deceitful. You’re so sure that it’s your pretty non-fluffy kitty and you end up with a lapful of a sneaky Combaticon ‘copter – oh my!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looks like I’m really convinced that Vortex should belong to the realm of pets – as opposed to, uh, I dunno, a realm of rapists, for example?… No, I’m not bitter about his depiction in many fics, no, not at all whatsoever, absolutely not.


	15. I’M INCORRIGIBLE...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Surely, in spite of your previous suitability for the job and strong mental foundation, something happened with you tonight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter contains spoilers for "More than Meets the Eye" #4-6 and beyond.

_First Aid heard it from Fixit who heard it from Wheeljack who overheard Drift and Ratchet who was then confronted by First Aid claiming that he should had told him much sooner, Primusdammit!_

Ratchet didn’t believe in sparkeaters until he met one and presented with such evidence, he changed his mind without problem – for this was the principle according to which he operated. However, maaany vorns before that fateful adventure he had encountered another monstrosity he up until then hadn’t believed in. Worse even, this monstrosity strongly believed in him.

At some point of his lengthy career Ratchet found himself cutting people open in a reputable clinic in the middle of pre-war Praxus. In spite of the city being overtly uppity and stifling he quite enjoyed his working environment, mostly due to generous funding, well-behaved patients and his workmates – especially Pharma and Ambulon. Being outsiders like him, their little clique would trade snarky remarks, dark jokes and good-sparked dabs to relieve usual tensions of their highly demanding and stressful job and usual irritating holier-than-thou-ness emanating from all over the place. He liked his colleagues, he really did, **however**...

Ambulon was all about rules and regulations instead of relying on medic’s intuition which, coupled with how their stuck-up and by-the-letter surroundings were slowly infecting him, made him really grating on Ratchet’s nerves at times. Still, trying as it could be, Ratchet considered himself a team-player whose duty was to put up with his teammates’ quirks. Anyway, a good spark-to-spark talk after shift was usually enough to show poor good Ambulon the roughness around his edges and proverbial stick up his tailpipe, get a sincere apology from him, a hug and a various amount of drinks and everything would be good and well for a while. Pharma, though… Pharma wasn’t as easy as good ol’ Ambulon.

He was brilliant. He was talented. He was charismatic and his intuition rivalled Ratchet’s. He was handsome. His doors looked like wings. He had hands cut out for the job. He was great with people. Dedicated. Charming. Some things he managed to get away with in this stuck-up city-state seemed truly unbelievable and if Ratchet hadn’t been the co-perpetractor for so many of them he would had problem believing it himself. However, from time to time and on occasions it was especially unneeded, Pharma would let his well-managed front slip for his colleagues to have a glimpse of who he really was deep inside: a narcissistic afthole.

Those weren’t friendly jabs and mock insults; Pharma would point out and ridicule their shortcomings at moments they would take it the most. It was evident then that he was giving them an enormous favour for even bearing their company. They made mistakes (rare but still), true, but not nearly as much as Pharma attributed to them, their tastes were “provincial” and annoying, their frames were ugly and they dared to have opinions that didn’t mirror Pharma’s opinions and beliefs, and refused to bend over backwards to humour him and cater to his whims. Whenever they tried confronting him about this passive aggression and putting them down to appear better than them, he would have no idea what they were talking about. Everything was _almost_ perfect between them, he didn’t know what Ratchet and Ambulon’s problem with him was.

One day, they finally had enough of his shenanigans. Not because Pharma making fun of Ambulon’s mishaps and nervousness immediately after leaving the operating room, when both Ambulon and Ratchet were tired and irritated (and not rightly so – the operation was successful, even though the patient died), was more infuriating to them than usual. It was just… One time too many and they finally snapped. The bastard needed his lesson, whatever it could be, and he needed it NOW.

They simply grabbed Pharma and dragged him to the nastiest place they could think of – the storage room for unrecyclabe parts (or, to put it differently: the sinister place where all the medical waste lived right before getting smelted). They kicked him inside and closed the door. Since nothing alive was ever left there, there was no need for the door to lock and unlock from the inside. Pharma knew that and what his chances were. Therefore, his friends could hear muffled and yet desperate banging from behind thick metal.

“Good night, afthole!” Ratchet shouted to the door before going. “Maybe after spending some time with corpses you’ll learn to appreciate people around you!”

The death-storage room was situated in a distant part of one corridor night janitors were unlikely to check which was unfortunate for Pharma and promising for Ratchet and Ambulon – they knew that noone would be bringing anything there until morning. They hoped that those were ideal circumstances for Pharma to think of his actions and how they were affecting others. The place was perfect: dead parts of people at night time could bring a mech an unparalleled feeling of solitude – greater than whole corpses and greater than an empty room. Amazing for self-reflection, they thought…

Obviously, Ratchet ended up taking Pharma’s night shift which he spent together with Ambulon on helping several patients, taking some parts out and putting some parts in, gossiping, shocking prudish Praxian nurses and somehow enjoying Pharma’s absence till the shift ended.

Was it enough for him? They were unsure. Being quite knew to locking their friends at the home of medical waste for morally uplifting reasons, they could not decide about the exact amount of time needed by this particular afthole to finally reflect. They went to cafeteria to kill some time. They visited other colleagues still on their shifts. They helped with some unruly psychiatric patients and afterwards set off on a quest to find for the janitor a clean set of mops.

At the end, they creeped through the deserted corridor and stopped by the door they had locked in the evening. They listened. Heard nothing. They put their audios to the door. Heard nothing. They knew the door was very thick and, obviously, there was only one Pharma there and a lot of things destined to remain forever quiet, but still… They pressed their audios harder to the door and listened intently. And then, only then, they managed to hear some faint grinding and… Gurgle in the pipes? Primusdammit, had this idiot done something to the storage drainage system? Should they check on him? Ambulon and Ratchet looked at each other in a near silence, at the deserted hospital corridor, at the door to medical waste storage area, very late at night, weighing their options.

Finally, unable to wait any longer, they opened the door. Surely, by then he should had learnt his less…

To their utter shock, in the far corner they spotted Pharma hiding in an enormous pile of severed body parts, covered with old oil, grease and dried energon. He was gnawing at what they recognized as a t-cog, making low gurgling sounds.

Source: <https://www.snopes.com/fact-check/arm-stammer/>

  
  


So remember girls: Avoid Pharma. At all cost. Get another medic ASAP!

After credits:

“Ph- - Pharma?”

Ratchet had lost his faith in gods long ago and now he felt that this lovely picture of his dear friend engaging in eating cadavers would soon devoid him from all that was left from his faith in people.

“Primus almighty, he went mad!” Ambulon pushed himself next to Ratchet and into the storage, ready for action. Only to freeze right after entering for no type of action was crossing his mind.

They had absolutely no knowledge of how to handle this. There was nothing about it at their medical school, there were no courses and seminars covering topics like that, frag, even the medical laws weren’t particularly helpful. In short, they had no idea how to deal with their friend sitting in the storage for unrecyclable body parts and chomping on corpses… Parts of corpses... Partial corpses… On dead parts.

Only… He stopped chomping on corpses and proceeded to crawl out of the comfy pile of death he had gathered himself earlier. He stood up, stretched, turned towards his colleagues that had pranked him like that and smiled at them, still covered with cadaver juices and still chewing on something.

“Good morning, my friends!” He greeted them, even though it was still the night. “I hope that you recharged well?”

“Not really,” mumbled Ambulon, retreating back to Ratchet. “Did you?”

His smile not faltering, Pharma glanced back in the general direction of the macabre pile of dead things and murmured dreamily:

“No, I was kind of… Busy...”

“Ah, that’s sweet,” Ratchet said dismissively. “Anything else?”

Pharma laughed heartily (sparkily?)

“Ratchet, my frieeend… What I had to say I did say. I’m not entirely sure what are you trying to achieve here…”

“Through this entire night didn’t you, by any chance, take some moment to reflect on your general behaviour that put you here in the first place?” Although his tone was stern, Ratchet was nice enough to dish it all out for Parma’s benefit – in case that, like may aftholes, he was absolutely incapable of noticing that there could had been anything wrong with his behaviour and not with everybody else’s.

“Reflect, you say?” Pharma raised one stained finger to his face and used it to smear various unsavoury substances in mock pondering. “Ah, yes!… It was so nice of you to lock me here, let me thank you, my frieeends!”

After those words he opened his bloody arms and started power walking towards them, all of that happening rather too quickly for their liking.

“No!” Ambulon stepped back and bumped into Ratchet. “Stay away from us, you psycho!”

“Oh?” Pharma stopped in faux sadness. “But I really miiissed youuu!”

This time Ratchet pushed past Ambulon and firmly approached his unhinged colleague / victim / predator in the middle of storage room. Now, after Pharma had created his pile of joy, it seemed much more spacious and empty.

“Enough of fragging around,” he demanded, not allowing for any arguments. “Surely, in spite of your previous suitability for the job and strong mental foundation, something happened with you tonight. We’re sorry for putting you through that, thoughts and prayers, never again; but it’s still too much of this madness. Maybe you’re really unwell, maybe you’re trying to freak us out, either way we’re taking you for evaluation.”

“Evaluation?” Pharma finally sounded like he was entirely there and a tad worried.

“Yeah, you were mean to us, we were mean to you, but it’s over now; we need to make sure you’re gonna be alright… And your fuel tracts should be emptied and cleaned as well,” Ratchet added, disturbed remembering all over again what his friend had been doing as they had entered the storage.

“Ow? But I feel alright!” Pharma tried to reassure him. “Really! No hard feelings for you, buddy,” he gently patted Ratchet’s left cheek. With his bloody hand.

“Stop it!” Ratchet pushed him away. “That’s disgusting!”

“Oh… Sorry,” Pharma appeared ashamed… To suddenly attack again and leave four bloody fingertips on his friend’s another cheek. He dodged Ratchet’s fist and jumped backwards, laughing his helm off.

Ratchet was fuming, while making no effort to remove disgusting substance from his face because such were priorities of any good medic: handle the situation at hand and only then think about cleaning, and clean yourself at the very end. And, of course, the hands. Every medic needed the hands.

“Pharma, you fragging afthead! Stop this fraggotry or help me, I’ll dismember you and leave here, in this new home of yours!”

“Oh…” This time Pharma took him seriously (or so it seemed) and moved several steps backwards.

“I’m sorry,” he flashed them a smile that would be charming if it hadn’t been for all those dead bodily fluids smeared on his face.

“I guess I’m just incorrigible...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember how Pharma claimed that he was murdering his patients and harvesting their t-cogs in order to give them to Tarn who blackmailed him into feeding his transforming addiction – the addiction that was never mentioned again?  
> Well, maybe after his chain of supply died off, Tarn shrugged and decided to stop being addicted, as people do all the time (and it works like a spell, always).  
> Or… It was a lie to cover the murderous medic’s own aft.  
> Maybe he was just eating all those t-cogs.  
> Pharma the screwed-up cog-eater.


	16. IF IT DOESN’T KILL YOU IT MAKES YOU STRONGER

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We did it many times in this war, don’t you remember?”

_Thundercracker heard it from Skywarp who heard it from Dirge who heard it from Ramjet who heard it from Thrust who swears it’s all true!_

“Hey, hey! You heard that story?”

“What story?”

“Story about that Seeker!”

“What Seeker?”

“Y’know, that Seeker that ordered a cocktail in Old Maccadam’s?”

“You mean me? Once I had a cocktail there. With you, I think. Is that about you?”

“Primus, no! I hope no… It’s about this Seeker that ordered a posh cocktail and was quite a bitch about it. Like Starscream. But I ain’t saying it was Starscream… I wish it was Starscream...”

“So this not-Starscream bitch ordered a cocktail in Old Maccadam’s aand?”

“And had it, and drunk it, and bitched a bit more and went home.”

“Wow, that’s fascinating.”

“Wait, it’s more! After some joors he started feeling funny. Near the end of the cycle it was so bad that he decided to fly to the hospital. And in the hospital they put him on the table almost immediately but it was too late – he died.”

“Died? Well, that’s nice… And why did he die again?”

“That’s the best part! Before dying he managed to tell the medics that it had to be this cocktail in Old Maccadam’s. So after he kicked the bucket they examined his fuel tanks…”

“And they found that cocktail?”

“Yeah! And they found in there the unprocessed energon from five different mechs.”

“Wait, what? In that cocktail?”

“Yeah! Five Maccadam’s workers dumped their unprocessed energon into that bitch’s cocktail!”

“Aaand that killed him.”

“So it did!”

“Is that… True?”

“Of course it is! I heard it from Dirge who heard it from Ramjet who...”

“You can’t identify a mech by their energon. And you don’t die after digesting unprocessed energon.”

“...You don’t?”

“We did it many times in this war, don’t you remember? When there was nothing else to eat. From dead bodies. And we had it refined even more times and it tasted okay. And we didn’t die. This story is some slag.”

“But… But it’s yucky! They dumped it into his drink and he didn’t know it!”

“And he died because of it? Really… Energon’s energon. It can be a bit icky but it won’t poison you. There are well documented cases when entire brigades for a long time...”

“You know what? You’re no fun!”

“...”

  
  


So remember girls… Um… Don’t eat anything. This way you’ll be safe.

  
  


Source: <https://www.snopes.com/fact-check/secret-sauce/>,  [ https://www.snopes.com/fact-check/urine-good-hands/  ](https://www.snopes.com/fact-check/urine-good-hands/)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Correct me if I’m wrong, but as far as I know TF canon you cannot determine the owner of any spilled / half processed energon as we fleshlings do with our bodily fluids. I say, they rather identify people by their heads or spark signature. I suppose you can ascertain mech’s frame type by the special variety of fuel, or how shitty their diet was before their half-processed energon got spilled, but that’s it.  
>   
> Also: storytime! (Don’t worry, I was as active in major plotpoints as Skywarp above)  
> Once upon a university my mildly unsettling* groupmate treated us with the story of a woman, a milkshake, a hospital and seven-or-so samples. As both urban legends nerd and former fast food server I explained to her and everyone how it wasn’t true and why (very strict workplace supervision). After some time she proceeded to tell me this exact story again, obviously forgetting that I was the one debunking it earlier, so I had to do it again. I think it offers some insight into distribution of certain stories: how often do people continue spreading them as true in spite of knowing they’re not? (Hence Skywarp’s “You’re no fun!” as response to TC’s thoughtful arguments) Let’s not dwell on possibly nefarious motives of that particular individual who insisted on telling debunked disgusting stories to any victim available; I guess urban-legend-ology should have something to say about her as well.  
>   
> Besides, I know versions with people getting sick (and, yes, even dying) after having some snacks left for general audience in bars, hotels or other facilities because – le gasp! – too many people neglect to wash their hands after their visit to lavatory. And, I mean, yeah – when you’re a small kid or… A really sheltered person, you may believe this stuff, however, after living in this cursed world for a while it’s exactly as Thundercracker said: yes, it’s yucky, no, you won’t die from this, you’ve done far worse things as a soldier, um, I mean, as a kid.  
> [Enter obligatory: “Unless it’s a world pandemic situation”]  
>   
> *recently, I received on Facebook a friend request from her and it caused me a minor panic attack. Mildly unsettling groupmate from the first term, whatever it was you want from me, I never wanna know!


	17. TRICK OR POISON!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ’Cause when you stare into the abyss long enough, the abyss will ask you for candy…

_Mixmaster heard it from Frenzy who heard it from Rumble who heard it from Buzzsaw who heard it from the radio show host who heard it from a renowned anthropologist. Everything was passed down and understood perfectly and, of course, was totally true!_

  
  


If there was ever a Decepticon who could hardly get surprised, Mixmaster was him. Granted, it was most probably due to various substances he, well, encountered in his line of work that left him more relaxed, content, imaginative and mischievous than your average sober mech (in addition to his normal genius and slight madness). Therefore, he wasn’t surprised by Rumble and Frenzy’s request:

“Hey, Mixmaster, listen up! Can you turn our energon rations orange?”

“So it looks like pumpkin juice?”

“Just for today!”

“It’s very important!”

“’Cause, y’know, today is a holiday!”

“Why, sure,” Mixmaster shrugged. “I can easily whip up some additives to turn it orange, fizzle, sparkle and glow in darkness if you like.”

“Yaay!”

“Do it, do it, that’d be awesome!”

“Just tell, what kind of holiday it is,” Mixmaster requested. “It’s Earthian, isn’t it? Do the earthlings celebrate the time their mythical hero killed the first winter squash and drunk its blood to gain his appendix or something?”

“Oh, no!” Frenzy shook his head. “It’s about the time of the year when everything dies due to autumn and the dead return on Earth to bother the living and steal their junk.”

“So they dress their children up to look terrifying and give them poison,” Rumble continued.

“So the dead could see them, get scared of poisoning and go bother someone else, like, Christians or somethin’.”

“And children like lookin’ terrifying and getting poisoned, ‘cause most of ‘em won’t die immediately after eating it.”

“But, in a long term, it’s inevitable. Like taxes.”

“So they finally become what they were supposed to scare off and what they were secretly afraid of this entire time.”

“And then another children will dress up to scare _them_ and the circle of poisoning continues!”

“Like the four seasons!”

“’Cause when you stare into the abyss long enough, the abyss will ask you for candy…”

“And yet, you want me to simply colour your energon orange,” Mixmaster summarized.

The Cassetticons looked at each other.

“Well… Yeah. That’ll be plenty enough.”

“Maybe you could sprinkle some coal on it, if you like, so it’ll be more fittin’ for the season, but it’s up to you, really.”

“After you told me about all this poisoning and how important it is for this holiday?” Mixmaster was smirking. “I think I need more information.”

The sun had set long ago and although Megatron’s current secret weapon wasn’t finished yet, a solid portion of Decepticons returned to the Nemesis. After hitting the washracks they rushed to the mess hall only to see the unusual arrangement: energon dispensers were disabled while one long table was set with energon cubes and little glossy thingies that could only be energon treats. They slowly approached the table and Mixmaster and the two Cassetticons who were sprinkling black and orange powder all over it.

“What’s the meaning of this?” since Megatron and Soundwave were still absent, it was for Starscream to ask this grating question.

“Happy Halloween!” Rumble and Frenzy jumped on the table and sprinkled a bit of the powder in his general direction. He failed to appreciate this gesture.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Starscream repeated, determined to show that he was as boring and no-nonsense as only true leaders are.

“It’s a holiday today so we’re celebrating,” Mixmaster explained and sprinkled his coal powder on a group of orange energon goodies. “Something about getting poisoned, dying and learning the true meaning of life. Here!” He generously gestured over the table. “Help yourselves. You’re not getting anything else tonight.”

After a long and tiring day of secret weapon building, Decepticons didn’t need to be told to refuel, all the talks about holidays and dying aside. Most of them reached for cubes with funny-coloured energon and chugged it without thinking.

The Stunticons – the four of them that have returned – remained frozen to their spots, frowning and trying to make sense of things. Being built on Earth, they had quite a good idea about things happening there.

“Huh?” Wildrider failed to find method in this madness (and he was normally really good in forming wild associations).

“Since when is Halloween about poison?” Breakdown glanced at the glowing festive table, a little worried.

“They mixed it up, as usual,” Drag Strip shrugged impatiently. “Race you to the purple ones!”

“Well,” Dead End pointed out, as Drag Strip and Wildrider rushed to the opposite side of the table. “There were some cases when Halloween candy got poisoned, so to an extent it might hold some- -”

He got cut off by the sudden sound of Astrotrain choking on something. For a moment everybody was staring at him and at their own cubes with fear. With exception of Mixmaster, Rumble and Frenzy who were stupidly pleased with themselves.

“Why are razor blades in my energon?” Now Astrotrain was chewing on something. “I wasn’t prepared for eating!”

The rest of the drinking Decepticons looked into their cubes and shook them quizzically.

“I’ve got some too,” Skywarp announced. “Sweet!”

“It’s a very important Halloween tradition,” Mixmaster explained cheerfully.

“You could’ve warned me!” His victim complained.

“No, I couldn’t. It would make no sense then,” the chemist disagreed with him.

“So you couldn’t just put blades in a bowl like normal people do?” Starscream bitched, yet since he tried to bitch and crunch on razor blades at the same time, his rant lost a bit of its edge.

The Constructicon in charge and his two minions grinned and replied happily: “Nope!”

“Mixie…?” Scavenger and Bonecrusher, the only other Constructicons present, appeared suspicious.

“All’s peachy!” Mixmaster reassured them and reached under the table. “Who wants some poison?”

“Wait, what?” Drag Strip nearly put down the energon treat he was eating (nearly because it still was, you know, the energon treat). Breakdown choked on his.

Mixmaster put in front of them a tray filled with high grade shots. He had hardly put it down safely when Blitzwing’s hand reflexively shot out and grabbed one tiny cube. The triplechanger then stared at the shot intently and sniffed it.

“Ah,” he smiled fondly. “Quicksilver. Great for unclogging your fuel tracts.”

“You know that, long term, it isn’t good for you, right?” Mixmaster, the person who prepared the shots, reminded him merrily.

“Yeah, what is?” Blitzwing downed the shot in a sparkbeat and immediately took another. The rest of the crew followed suit. Only Rumble and Frenzy refrained from it because, frankly, such amount of quicksilver in high grade would probably kill them. They were content just watching others eating and drinking.

“Why did you put charcoal in it?” Starscream complained again, chewing on his energon treat. “It’s plain nasty!”

“What?” Astrotrain looked at the table, agitated. “Which ones have coal?”

He located round red goodies with black filling and took three.

“And you put gun powder in mine,” added Thundercracker, disappointed. “A very good outside and really awful inside! OK, I admit it tastes kind of interesting…”

“Dunno what’s your problem, TC, it’s rad!” Skywarp had a mouthful.

Thundercracker sighed.

“Yeah, sure, why not… Last time you got trashed you _ate_ a cube…”

Bonecrusher made a face.

“Ew, diesel!” He took another one.

“But those glass shards are a nice touch!” Scavenger hurried to say something positive.

“Really?” Mixmaster beamed. “Shame.”

“I really don’t get it,” Starscream continued having kinda-addictive treats and complaining about them. “You took something good, healthy and wholesome and turned it into some weird slagshow… Because of human holiday?”

A shrug.

“Essentially, yes.”

“But what does it have to do with trick-or-treating?” asked Dead End, able to restrain himself until now.

“It has a lot to do with it,” Mixmaster answered his question, in a very Mixmaster-fashion making Dead End dread what he was about to hear. “Because it’s all about tricking you into eating poison!”

Stunticons didn’t look convinced. The rest of the crew laughed and relaxed completely.

Starscream stopped complaining and a thoughtful smirk crawled upon his lips.

  
  


Source: <https://www.snopes.com/news/2019/10/24/halloween-dangerous-holiday/>

  
  


So remember girls: If you want somebody to tamper with your festive food, you need to ask the right person and do it really nicely. Don’t rely on strangers because, sadly, they don’t care about you.

  
  


After credits:

  
  


It was late at night when Megatron finally entered his quarters with Soundwave in tow. Seeing that Starscream was already there was as surprising to him as pretty much nothing. Still, he had to play the part.

“Starscream! What are you doing here and how did you get in?”

“That’s my sweet secret, oh mighty leader,” Starscream’s head turned left from Megatron and his smirk vanished. “Why are you having Soundwave in your private quarters at this hour?”

“That’s my sweet secret, Starscream,” Megatron shot back.

Not having any good comeback for that, Decepticon SiC swallowed his pride and let it slide. He gracefully stepped aside to present to them a tray filled with unusual energon goodies and cubes of weird and funny-looking energon.

“It’s really unfortunate that you didn’t return with the rest of us,” he stated sweetly. “It appears that today was some major human holiday and for this occasion Mixmaster prepared some drinks and treats for us. It was all gone in an astrosecond, but fortunately, I managed to save something for you at my own expense, I hope you’ll appreciate that. Also, Rumble and Frenzy disabled all energon dispensers so you’d better help yourselves, there’s nothing else.”

Megatron and Soundwave glanced at each other, then at the tray. The fact that Starscream allegedly had gone to great lengths to save something for them (or, more probably, solely for his leader) was highly suspicious. Still, hearing that Constructicons and Cassetticons were in it…

“Your care is noted and appreciated,” Megatron lied smoothly as they both reached for cubes with eerily orange energon sprinkled with black powder. Soundwave murmured in half-sparked agreement. Starscream watched them drink, pleased.

“Just be careful, there are razor blades in it,” he warned them cheerfully and they froze mid-drinking. “According to Mixmaster, it’s a very important holiday custom.”

Megatron nearly spat.

“Couldn’t he put them in a bowl like normal people do?”

Starscream shook his head.

“Apparently not.”

Unable to do anything about it, the newcomers shrugged and continued drinking their festive energon while crunching on razor blades. Interestingly, each of them downed three such cubes without further complaining. Perhaps due to entire day of hardships and stress. And perhaps because of that each of them was roughly on his tenth energon goodie when they realized something and both grimaced.

Starscream watched them, delighted. It was precious enough to see Soundwave with his battle mask retracted and making faces but visibly alarmed and dumbfounded Megatron was still more hilarious.

“Why does it taste like corrosion on a dead mech?” he asked, more alerted than angry.

“Perhaps you’ve been eating them too hastily,” Starscream suggested helpfully. “These are more of a slow appreciation variety… Besides, Skywarp loved them.”

Megatron and Soundwave winced.

“Skywarp? Last time he got thrashed he tried to eat, ugh...”

“Laserbeak- -” Soundwave reminded them gloomily.

“Well, according to Mixmaster it’s customary to give people poisoned candy today, so you either take it or not,” Starscream shook the tray and remaining cubes clinked gently. “There are still many people who would like to have it.”

“Well, there’s no need to jump to conclusions…” Megatron reached for another treat. Funny tasting or not, the two of them were still hungry. Surely, Mixmaster wouldn’t put there anything seriously damaging, right? “They taste unusual, that’s all I wanted to say. What holiday is that anyway that it calls for poison? National Capitalism Appreciation Day?”

“Oh, it’s Halloween,” Starscream informed them dismissively. “You know, they poison each other with unhealthy food to appreciate life more or because they’re afraid of death, something like that.”

“Incorrect- -” Soundwave announced.

Starscream glared at him like he would glare at something small and insignificant, a minibot or an oil rig worker, for example.

“Excuse me?” he asked with sweetness more poisonous than Mixmaster’s holiday candy.

“Halloween isn’t about poisoning each other- - It’s about having fun and coming to terms with one’s mortality- -”

“Oh, well, isn’t that cute,” Starscream was smirking again, and it wasn’t a good sign. “Tell me, Soundwave: which of us is the Second in Command in this army, me or you?”

“You are- -”

“So, which of us has better idea about Earthian customs and holidays?”

“I am Communication Officer- -”

“Oh, really? Then guess what, I am xenologist! Are organic lifeforms your field of expertise, Soundwave?”

“Negative- -”

“Yes, I thought so. And guess what, they are MY field of expertise. Which means that when I tell you to eat poisoned candy on Halloween, you do it. Am I understood?”

“Yes- - You are- -” defeated, Soundwave slowly took a treat from the tray Starscream expectantly shook in his direction. He looked at the little thing stuffed with a lump of coal, sighed and ate it.

“Why do I even bother- -”

Megatron mostly ignored their exchange, focused on finding treats he would actually like. There was something at the back of his helm that was nagging him, yet he couldn’t tell what it was. Halloween, poisoning, death, life, Starscream… Then it finally occurred to him.

“But you didn’t put actual poison in it, right?”

Starscream was smirking for maybe a millisecond too long before breaking into totally honest indignation.

“Meee? I would never!...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloween, everyone! Stay spooked, stay happy, stay safe!  
> (And remember that candy IS a long-term poison)


	18. A FLY – A WALK – A NOT!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It wasn’t that Sunstreaker was some cold-sparked psycho, frag no.

_Sunstreaker heard it from Sideswipe who heard it from Spyglass who heard it from Viewfinder who heard it from Spectro who swears he had seen the actual report but hadn’t photographed it for some reason!_

Many hours after one especially eventful patrol, Sunstreaker was sitting in his quarters and polishing himself – being in his most antisocial, sociopathic, psychopathic. He had had his fresh paintjob only today morning; who had known that one Decepticon camera component could cause so much damage that it would had forced him to practically reapply it anew. Blasted Decepticons! He needed to find a way to get this glitch that was currently stewing in their brig, and to do it painfully.

These pleasant musings were interrupted by his door sliding aside and leaving his threshold full of Sideswipe.

“Sunny, Sunny!” He exclaimed enthusiastically.

Sunstreaker immediately returned his gaze to the moves of the buffing rug on his perfect calf. Irritating or not, Sideswipe was his brother and shooting him right now, no matter how tempting, seemed a little bit excessive.

“What do you want?” he growled instead.

“Um…” Sideswipe gingerly made several steps into the room. “I have a short break from my duty in the brig,” he explained.

“And I should care because?” The less friendly twin demanded. Sideswipe hesitated for a nanosecond (which, for him, was pretty long).

“Wanna hear a Decepticon joke?”

Surprisingly, that sounded promising.

It wasn’t that Sunstreaker was some cold-sparked psycho, frag no. He liked to laugh, yes, only the things he would laugh at were a little different than the common comedy fuel. Like this one time when he, Sideswipe and – for some weird and forgotten reason – Wheeljack attempted to prank Ironhide. The respectable vet got covered with confetti, small animals and elements of insulation and thus earned from the three of them a hearty (sparky?) laugh.

Then Ironhide’s arm exploded. Wheeljack and Sideswipe stared in horror and Sunstreaker continued to laugh because it was just too good. He stopped with some difficulty when, for a change, terrified Sideswipe and Wheeljack and damaged Ironhide turned to stare at him with a mixture of terror and revulsion as if he was something abnormal.

It wasn’t that Sunstreaker was some cold-sparked psycho, it was just different taste in jokes, Primusdammit! And if someone could cater for his dark sense of humour, the Decepticons should be the right people. Therefore, Sunstreaker didn’t order his visiting twin out right away.

“Go on.”

“Okay!” Sideswipe clasped his hands together and moved a tad nearer. “Sooo Vortex is sitting in his lab and performing- -”

“That glitch has a laboratory? Since when?” Was that something Jazz didn’t care to share with them cannon fodder?

“Actually, that Reflector guy said ‘sitting at the table in the storage area behind the interrogation room where he often does some stupid slag unperturbed’ but I think this sounds cooler.”

“Whatever,” Sunstreaker shrugged, not for a moment taking his optics off the buffed surface. Right now he could see there a little Sideswipe’s reflection regaining its cheerful composure.

“So! Vortex is sitting where he’s sitting and performing an experiment. He takes a fly, magnifying glass and tweezers and rips the fly’s wings off. Then he puts it on the table and says: ‘Fly, walk.’ And the fly walks. So he takes the datapad and writes down: _After removing the wings the fly continues to walk._ ”

“Ow wow, genius!” Sunstreaker murmured, some extra sarcasm added for Sideswipe’s benefit.

“Heh, yeah… So he takes the tweezers and rips off two of the fly’s legs and says: ‘Fly, walk’. And the fly walks so he writes down: _After removing one pair of legs the fly continues to walk._ ”

“Uh-huh, that sounds like him. Pity he didn’t rip an Insecticon instead.”

“Okay, that was disturbing… And then he rips off another pair of the fly’s legs and says: ‘Fly, walk.’ And the fly walks and so he writes down: _After removing two pairs of legs the fly continues to walk_.”

“My, my, I wonder how it will end...”

“Then he rips off the last pair of the fly’s legs, puts it on the table and says: ‘Fly, walk.’ The fly doesn’t walk. So he takes the datapad and writes down: _After running out of legs the fly loses all its hearing_.”

Sideswipe watched his brother warily, bracing himself for some snarkiness or worse.

“Ah,” Sunstreaker acknowledged the end of the joke. “Not bad, not bad,” he admitted generously.

“You liked it?” Sideswipe beamed. “Cool!”

“You can ask that Deceptiscum if he knows some more and come here later,” Sunstreaker suggested idly. Go ahead, twin. Entertain me.

“Okay, sure!” Sideswipe checked his internal chronometer and froze. “Oh frag, I’m late, Ironhide’s gonna kill me… So I’ll be going, bye!”

As soon as the door slid shut behind him and the corridor carried the sound of him galloping, Sunstreaker cracked up.

Inspired by:[ https://www.fanfiction.net/s/4947163/1/Fire_in_the_Wires](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/4947163/1/Fire_in_the_Wires)

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s actually a joke I heard from my dad, with a Soviet scientist instead of the Combaticon interrogator (because back then Soviet scientists were the best and could do everything, very much like American scientists nowadays… Now it got me thinking about Vortex trying to act Soviet in order to freak out the 1980s Americans).  
> And then I read the great “Fire in the Wires” where Vortex indeed has his lab* where his buddies visit him and Blast Off asks about the creature Vortex’s been working with.  
> “Oh, it’s called ‘a fly’.”  
> “’A fly’? Why doesn’t it have wings then? Shouldn’t it be called ‘a walk’ instead?”  
> “Well, it used to have wings, but not anymore.”  
> If you haven’t read it yet, give it a try, good people, the core concept alone is truly amazing!  
>   
> *What? I thought. They gave Vortex entire laboratory? Is the Nemesis made of never-ending free space? What else is there, Buzzsaw’s atelier?… Damn, now I want to read about Buzzsaw’s atelier!


	19. ‘CAUSE IT REALLY FREAKS ME OUT!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And thus he was immediately promoted from ugly pipsqueak from Pit to good uncle Rumble.

_Sinnertwin heard it from his twin who heard it from his dinner who heard it from his neighbour who heard it from his breakfast who swears it’s all true!_

So it happened that Spike and Carly got kidnapped by the Decepticons. Again. But this time, instead of stewing on the Nemesis in the guts of the Pacific, they were handed for storage to the Combaticon Headquarters. You know – to cause confusion. The Autobots shouldn’t have anticipated that, what with the Combaticon HQ supposed to be secret and all. Good luck with your rescue missions, you fleshie-loving fraggers! And weren’t the Autobots surprised to be unable to find these two tiny critters in the main Decepticon base. No happy coincidences, no convenient overhearings, no dropped Nemesis plans with the prisoners’ position marked with a cross, no power blackouts and random idiots’ bragging, nothing!

It went on for some time and proved quite beneficial, actually. The fleshlings had already known the Nemesis and her inhabitants, after all – barely anything traumatic could happen to them in there. The strictly military base in the middle of a desert was a different story whatsoever. Onslaught never missed a chance to remind them with his deceptively cultured voice what pitiful worms they were and what unpleasant genocidal things could happen to them and their entire species if they ever fragged him off. Blast Off had a brand new reason to complain and show disdain. In exchange for small favours Swindle was using them to learn about some promising new markets. They were too small for Vortex to torture but a true passion would always find a way; and due to his regular verbal torment of Spike and bickering with Carly the rest of the crew was left alone by the interrogator and the squishies alike.

(Not so) Surprisingly, Brawl had grown quite fond of looking after them – matter-of-factly, if the mech ignored all the noise coming out of them they were just two capricious pets. He particularly liked lying down next to their cage all sorts of nuclear missiles he was building for Swindle and carrying on with his work while keeping an optic on the kids. For once they would be quiet and weren’t their little fleshy faces priceless! Spike was dead sure he would never serve in the army, no crap, he would change his religion for this or something; a bunch of bullies, all of them! Carly, on the contrary, was becoming more and more interested in her surroundings and finally had some sort of plan what to do when she would graduate MIT. During brief moments without Spike she even managed to lie foundations for some future cooperation with Swindle. In short, everyone was winning in this arrangement of things. And, from all accounts, Sparkplug was giving the Autobots real Pit back in the Ark. What was not to love?

One peaceful evening a sudden Astrotrain happened. The cargo he brought to them was quite small for it solely consisted of one Rumble. And all Rumble had for them were sudden orders: given verbally and personally on behalf of Soundwave himself, should this fragging Teletraan-1 be intercepting their communication right now or something; you never knew with those blasted Autobots. And the sudden orders were, well, sudden and secret and demanded of the Combaticons to jump into the triple-changer and go on the secret mission, like, right now (Astrotrain revved his engines impatiently; Brawl whooped, Vortex cheered, Swindle swore, Onslaught stared. Violence, yay!). There was no other way to get there since Blast Off was halfway to Mars and they couldn’t wait those several weeks for him to get back and take his teammates to the secret place on this sudden secret mission while Rumble and Astrotrain would go back after this announcement, hence Rumble was going with them all. Y’know, logistics.

The Combaticon commander was sipping from his late afternoon energon cube without any suddenness, immediateness or secrecy and calmly objected to this logistics. They would get inside Astrotrain for sure (Vortex giggled, Astrotrain shook, Brawl ex-vented, Swindle facepalmed. Innuendo, heheh!) and they would go on this sudden secret mission alright – but the Cassetticon would stay here for some squishie-sitting. And he gestured to the nearby cage with its two inhabitants exploding into vicious wave of insults and height jokes at the expense of flabbergasted Rumble. They were important prisoners after all and Onslaught wouldn’t have them escaping, fatally breaking or offing themselves without supervision; or, preferably, during supervision, of course. To take care of them was Megatron’s direct order and no sudden secrecy was going to change that, Rumble could ask him himself. Only he couldn’t because of this “Teletraan-1 possibly spying on them” situation – so, wouldn’t it be better to just presume it and stay here instead of getting under their feet? Honestly, piledrivers on a secret mission…

This reasoning seemed sound. The purple earthquake-bringer was almost sure to be their superior officer and Sigma, didn’t he love bossing around – and piledrivers were great for stealth, thank you very much! – but in this particular situation he had to accept defeat and stream of insults from the captives. The Combaticons finished their afternoon energon (Brawl and Vortex hastily, Swindle reluctantly, Onslaught calmly. Violence! Whoo-hoo!), politely took some more fuel for their nervous ride and left some high grade for Rumble. And swiftly filled the shuttle’s cargo bay with miscellaneous weaponry brought from various nooks and corners and they were ready to go. On their saying goodbye they warned the lone Cassetticon that he should prefer to stick to the lit parts of their base for in its dark recesses ghastly things dwelt and lurked. Should he run into any of them and have “an accident” he would have no-one to blame but himself.

Rumble claimed he already had had experience with these two fleshlings, both captured and on the loose, but Onslaught duly ignored his boasting and gave him quick instructions how to handle them before he boarded Astrotrain. They had already had their dinner and there was only supper around twenty hundred hours – there were some baked potatoes in storage to be reheated; if he wouldn’t add butter the earthlings would act really obnoxious so he’d better remember about that ingredient. In case the mission took longer than estimated there was also a pot of strawberry porridge for breakfast around zero-eight hundred hours, he would know which one, the bloody-red one. No, he wasn’t supposed to give them anything else, no matter what he’d find. These stupid creatures always wanted to eat some junk.

He could turn the TV on for them to watch but nothing too violent or immoral since they were still in their formative years and should be protected from such content (Spike and Carly booed from the distance. In response Onslaught threatened them with evisceration). There was no need to let them out on their run for they had had plenty of exercise earlier. He didn’t have to clean their cage, they were capable enough to take care of it themselves. Yet, if they asked him for any help he should ponder on it carefully for it could be a trap. Actually, engaging in any sort of conversation with them was rather inadvisable, at best it would be upsetting for both sides. At twenty-three hundred hours he ought to cover their cage with a cloth so they could go to sleep. Not with any cloth that might be too thin and let them catch a cold or too thick and cause them to overheat and suffocate; the pink one would be best. Yes, they had a pink cloth in their headquarters, shut up. It had been used for cleaning machine guns and machine guns hadn’t once complained about their masculinity being robbed from them.

Then Astrotrain shakily took off to the sudden secret place (Violence, we’re coming!… Ahahah, innuendo, ahahah! “Vortex, for frag’s sake! It was the last time we let you mix grades!”) and Rumble was left alone in the Combaticon HQ with two caged fleshies and a pink cloth. And some baked potatoes lurking in the storage. And Primus knew what else. For a moment he felt tempted to help himself to some unguided tour around the base but thought better about it. Who knew, maybe Swindle was storing somewhere a pack of rabid rhinos for sale or some poor mutilated schmuck was awaiting in a dark cell to be interrogated by Vortex; sometimes it was better not to know.

He inspected the common room with the cage sitting in there, earning some fresh insults about himself and his ancestors… Wait, what? How? You were getting something totally wrong, kids – A FACTORY was his ancestor! Or something like that… Threatening to gag them with potatoes (which proved a surprisingly potent threat), Rumble moved to the nearby storage area. Ooh, that was better! Wasn’t the common room giving him some creeps for no particular reason… Yeah, of course it had bugs and hidden cameras, it wasn’t what made his spy-senses alerted and constantly on edge…

He found a stove there, probably serving for heating some warfare chemical components and now for feeding the humans as well, and decided to act like a sly little bastard he was. Grinning, the purple Cassetticon threw some yellow grains into a pot which he subsequently covered and after next to no time the popping sounds erupted. Judging from the kids’ horrified screams he must had stumbled against some leftover nuclear warheads and now they were going to die in a mushroom cloud. When that didn’t happen they coined a theory that the minicon had surprised an innocent desert animal or human in the storage room and now was mercilessly shooting the poor unfortunate soul. As Rumble returned and shoved a bowl of salted popcorn into their cage they were so stunned they didn’t even attempt to escape. Then they positively jumped into the bowl.

“Thank goodness!” They cried out. “All we are getting are steamed vegetables; we were seriously feeling like sprouting leaves any day now!”

Dammit, on this awful diet they were getting healthier, prettier and smarter which made the captivity all the more insufferable; they didn’t want any of that!

“And I was about to ask what happened to your acne,” mumbled the baffled Decepticon cassette.

“Those were freckles!”

“Whatever, they’re gone now.”

So, in short, he had scared them to death and gave them, loosely speaking, some long-term poison and was heartily thanked for that. Honestly, lord Megatron could learn from him! And thus he was immediately promoted from ugly pipsqueak from Pit to good uncle Rumble. Wasn’t that a chance to exploit? Then, like a good uncle, he sat nearby and asked them how were they faring in the Combaticon Headquarters, what about their imprisonment and all. Maybe this little chat would help him to shake off this uneasy feeling… Huh, maybe after some time he would end up with each of them sitting on his knee.

Spike murmured that it wasn’t that bad but he was getting itchy from lack of labour and was increasingly worried how the oil brig was doing without him. Carly said that it was fine; sure, she was missing her classes but, on the other hand, she had access to some space science documents stolen from the government.

And what were they thinking of their fair guardians? Of Onslaught?

Spike gasped. “He’s a genocidal monster!”

Carly smirked. “He has nice voice. And those turrets… I could drive him and perform some anti-aircraft defence,” wink wink nudge nudge. Spike didn’t get it.

Vortex? Spike snarled. “He’s a sadistic monster!”

Carly giggled. “He’s a real gentlemech,” she blatantly lied. Spike got it, yet not quite.

Blast Off? Spike whimpered. “He… He’s a weapon of mass destruction! And a monster!”

Carly shrugged. “He’s darkly handsome but still an afthole.”

Brawl? Spike wailed. “He’s a monster… And will get us all killed!”

Carly winked. “He surely knows his way around a bombshell.” Spike didn’t get it.

And Swindle? Spike smiled. “He’s very kind and sympathetic in spite of his name.”

Carly growled. “This fragger tries to double-cross me every-slagging-time! But I’ll be damned if I’ll let him… No, Spike, don’t ask; you won’t understand anyway.” So Spike didn’t get it.

Rumble nodded, memorizing some potential intel for Soundwave (and feeling a little bit sorry for Spike). Now he could carry on and inquire how much they were missing their Ark friends and what a pity they couldn’t help in that new Wheeljack’s project, they knew which one, oh, actually they could tell him about it some more… But maybe later. Some variety should be in order. He switched on TV and what luck, _The Texas Chain Saw Massacre_ was just starting.

Spike and Carly whooped like it was Christmas… Or something. Rumble wasn’t this happy and try as he might he couldn’t convince himself that something on the screen was giving him shivers, as opposed to something in the room. He searched around again, much more carefully this time and finally found the reason of his distress. Oh, wasn’t that stupid. And at the same time, slaggit, wasn’t that creepy like Starscream at midnight! He’d have to talk with Onslaught about his taste in internal decoration.

Mentioning nothing about his discovery so to have nobody unnecessarily freaking out, he resumed his position next to the excited popcorn-munching prisoners and tried to follow the plot while sipping his high grade. Yet, he still couldn’t relax… Well, relax as much as possible during _The Texas Chain Saw Massacre_. Now he knew what was bugging him but this fact changed nothing because it-was-still-there! Right behind him! Staring! Ugh! So who cared about some fleshies with more skin than normally required running around and putting gardening equipment into some unusual use – based on true events or not, that wasn’t real! THIS was real! Argh, he would love to comm Frenzy, or other cassettes, or Soundwave and have them talk him out of these irrational fears but ugh, the radio silence, the possible interception, Teletraan-1 being an aft and Primus, how he hated feeling this helpless right now! The only thing he could do was getting himself sad and plastered and he set about doing exactly that.

Soon enough a cannibal family run out of victims, Rumble run out of high grade and his charges run out of popcorn. Carly offered that if he let her out she could make the menacing potatoes into French fries but Rumble wouldn’t have it. Nice try, you sneaky escapist! No, nothing French for them tonight. At these words Carly giggled and Spike cleared his throat. Rumble rebooted his optics in confusion and then got it. Oh, yes, wasn’t Vortex residing in this base? Poor France, ruined forever for these two.

Finally it came to the Cassetticon butchering evil veggies into something unwholesome for Spike and Carly to mindlessly chew during _A Nightmare On Elm Street_ (well, this at least looked like a legit kid show, Onslaught shouldn’t complain afterwards; it had high-schoolers in it so it had to be harmless and for kids, right?). Due to a slight overcharge his vision got a tad blurry and his fingers suffered a bit but who would care about such petit details. Later on Carly judged that fried energon looked better than ketchup; asked about the taste the youngsters shrugged, mentioned something about salted coke and stuffed their mouths full with the once-healthy deep-fried abomination.

During commercial breaks, grateful as they could get, the fed teenagers told him about the last Wheeljack’s project they assisted with and, predictably, it was long outdated. Rumble wasn’t counting too much on any relevant information from somebody imprisoned for months; still, he tried at least. After the movie (kid shows nowadays, weren’t they getting weirder and weirder?) they coaxed him to tell some berth-time stories about turbofoxes, petrobunnies, cyberpuppies and other beasts. Why not; talking was good. He didn’t have to focus on that _thing_ staring at his back all the time. Just being careful not to give away any secrets – but who knew whether it was still necessary. Maybe these two wouldn’t go back to the Ark, maybe they would stay? Actually, they weren’t that bad when handled properly...

This had to come to an end though – Spike and Carly got sleepy so, like any good squishie-sitter, around 1 am Rumble obscured their cage with the glorified pink cloth. Then he sat alone in semi-darkness to keep guard, rigid and unable to look behind. Didn’t he hate literally everything right now.

After some unspecified eternity he finally was commed. Onslaught informed him (with something sounding like Vortex giggling in the background) that they had done everything successfully, somehow, and were on their way back. And he was hoping that everything was equally well with Rumble and that touching the cursed cloth hadn’t killed him or repainted him pink or had done something equally abhorrent to him. No, no, nothing of a kind; everything was peachy. Just… Wait, the cloth…

“Hey, uh… Can I take somethin’ and cover your Terrorsaur statue? ‘Cause it really freaks me out!”

There was silence on the line going on for too long for Rumble’s liking. Then Onslaught’s voice made his backstruts crawl.

“Take the prisoners and get out of the base ASAP. We neither have nor have ever had any Terrorsaur statues.”

Fair enough, when Astrotrain and the four Combaticons made it to the HQ they could see that there was no statue in the vicinity. Instead, they found one tiny body and two even smaller ones.

  
  


(There is also another version of this story where Rumble and the kids manage to run away in time but we all know that the real world isn’t that optimistic, don’t we?)

  
  


Source: <https://www.snopes.com/fact-check/statue-of-limitations-2/>

  
  


Concise version:

This story has gained grand popularity and has been exchanged between Cybertronians in many forms and versions. One of them goes as follows:

One night, a young Cassetticon was assigned to take care of the Combaticon base and everything in it while the Combaticons left for a romantic dinner.

Around midnight, the Combaticon commander called the base to check out on the Cassetticon. He was a bit concerned how the little ‘con was faring, yet their new HQ-sitter ensured him that everything was going as smoothly as supposed in the empty military base in the middle of the desert after the sun set and everything seemed terrifying.

“Don’t worry, I have everything under control,” the little Cassetticon said. “We had great time with the kids, I fed them and put them to bed. And only this Terrorsaur statue is looking at me funny… Can I cover it or something?”

“What?!” The Combaticon leader replied, terrified. “Take the statue and run away, we don’t have any kids!”

…

Or, maybe, was it: “Take the statue and the kids and run away, we don’t have any base!”

Or: _shouting to his teammates_ “Tell the statue to take the kids and run away, we don’t have any sitter!”

Something, something, postmodernism…

The base: “No, I’m not going anywhere. It’s your fragging problem that you don’t have any kids, statues and sitters; bring your useless afts here and deal with it!”

(Yes, the base was a very short titan with lots of attitude. Or, perhaps, not. Who knows)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, another one of those “Wow, it’s been heading in an interesting direction! Pity I have to kill them...”  
>   
> Perhaps, I shouldn't write about Astrotrain revving his engine(s) since he's, um, a shuttle, not a sportscar or a motorcycle . Buuut he's a triplechanger, so maybe revving his engine(s) isn't entirely impossible, and still better than blowing a whistle to signal his passengers to board.


	20. QUICKSWITCH THE, WELL, SIX-CHANGER

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s up to Quickswitch to save his new faction!

“Aha-hah! Yeah, that’s gonna do the trick, it’ll definitely do, frag me if I’m wrong!”

As many people left for prolonged periods with noone to converse with, Sixshot developed a habit to talk to himself to a sometimes-embarrassing degree.

“A tiny bit here, a tiny bit there… Oh, matrix-fragger, ain’t you gonna stick? Welder number 3, welder number 3, where the frag did I put this scrap?… Ah, here it is. Come to daddy, you sneaky little glitch… Ouch… Oh fraggin’ Primus, not again!”

Unfortunately, Sixshot’s fingers were made for destruction, and more specifically for transforming into mortal devices of massive destruction. What they were not designed for was wielding delicate instruments intended for highly specific tasks that weren’t destruction. Still, after three or thirteen broken welders number 3 he finally got the job done.

A full-size set of spare parts that would follow him everywhere! He’d wanted it for so long and yet was too embarrassed to ask any Decepticon engineer to build it for him. He’d never seen this solution employed anywhere save for some zombie robo-ants he encountered on one of his lonely missions, which made him think that it simply wasn’t seen as good enough for mighty Cybertronians. Didn’t matter, they weren’t here on this icy desolate plain to laugh at his less than average skills and his set of more than clashing parts he had collected over solar cycles that, put together, came to look absolutely unlike him. As Primus had allegedly said after purchasing another set of defected robots, _You wanna something done – do it fraggin’ yourself!_

“Woo-hoo, frag yeah!” lively and cheerful as he was never seen by others, Sixshot stepped back from his little project, had an appraising overlook, liked what he saw and almost did a little victory dance that could potentially bring an end to entire desolate neighbourhood. Instead, he pointed the crudely built remote control at his absolutely-not-look-alike (yes, very primitive technology, yet sufficient right now), pressed some buttons and gingerly motioned with the joystick, the fate of prematurely destroyed welders and too many other tools still fresh in his memory banks.

The set of spare parts put together to move like a mech raised its left hand. Sixshot exclaimed unintelligibly with joy and gently pressed another button. The set raised its other hand. Some additional pushes to the joystick made it wave. Then it took a step. Turned around. Made a squat. Sixshot was laughing the whole time, absolutely overjoyed with what he was able to build with his own murderous hands and some basic tools on this forbidden icy plain.

“Yeah, baby, I’m so proud of you! All movin’ an’ walkin’ like a boss! Oh my fraggin’ Primus, you’re so, so perfect… If I had tear ducts, I’d be crying right now, y’know that, baby?”

Literally out of the blue, a lightning struck the set of parts he’d so amateurishly put together. As Sixshot was still overcoming the shock from this sudden occurrence, the set lit its optics, smiled at him and said:

“I know, daddy.”

Dumbfounded, Sixshot cursed quietly behind his battle mask.

_ _ _ _ _ _

  
  


The scene opens to Teletraan 1’s gigantic screen which, as always, has been put to good use, currently displaying a widely-applauded soap opera about sinking of a [kitchen](https://tfwiki.net/wiki/As_the_Kitchen_Sinks). However, instead of some massive disaster able to sink a house, not to mention the kitchen, it displays a plight of an overly attractive 80’s housewife on the verge of discovering that her evil twin sister she had no idea existed has been having an affair with her husband for at least twenty episodes, taking him for his wealthy cousin Harry who, in turn, is lying in a coma in some unknown hospital after his divorce papers spontaneously combusted in his pocket, courtesy of his evil step-mother-in-law and her contacts in criminal underground. Obviously, only a madmech would have exchanged it for the gripping story of a massive natural disaster that would be able to literally sink somebody’s kitchen.

Suddenly, the screen gets hacked and every Autobot’s favourite serial is swallowed by a bout of static. After this brisk inconvenience the roar of static is replaced by Blaster’s energetic voice and some pleasant synthetic banjo music.

 _We interrupt this program to bring you…_ Quickswitch the, _um,_ Six-changer Show _!_

The hacked screen displays the picture of smiling and waving Quickswitch who, in spite of being Sixshot-sized weapon of mass destruction, is framed as small and non-threatening.

_Starring: Quickswitch, the, you know, six-changer!_

Cut to Quickswitch shouting at sleeping Skylinx and taking off as the awaken beastformer(?) raises his head to quizzically look at him.

_Quickswitch, abandoned as a new-frame..._

Cue sad-looking Quickswitch carrying a sad little bundle on a stick in the middle of Transformer-sized dark woods filled with ominous Decepticon-like red optics.

… _He was found by Optimus Prime…_

There comes the clip of Optimus Prime on Transformer-sized rocking chair with Quickswitch happily curled up on his lap. The two on the rocking chair are more than slightly clashing with the rest of the Ark’s futuristic interior. The fact that gigantic Quickswitch can be comfortably curled up on Optimus Prime’s lap might – just _might_ – raise some questions about scale and how it works in the G1.

_...Who lived in the middle of ~~nowhere~~ a mountain…_

Here emerges the picture of the Ark looking all comfy and homely as it’s brutally wedged into Mount St Hilary.

_...With his ~~husband~~ Second-in-Command Ironhide…_

The hacked screen helpfully offers the picture of grumpy-looking Ironhide, probably irritated by the fact that he is forced to seat in the giant armchair so-much-not-belonging to the grounded ship’s decor, instead of his favourite metal revolving chair next to very important consoles where he’s actually able to do his work.

_...And the rest of his Autobots!_

Cue the picture of assorted Autobots, happily smiling and waving, with bored Sunstreaker at the centre and Cliffjumper sulking at the far side to the left.

_Whenever something creepy happens around them…_

Here comes the display of terrifying mugshots that can be recognized as belonging to Megatron, Starscream, Soundwave and Shockwave, followed by the clip of Reflector turning into camera and taking pictures and Constructicons building a bridge over some river.

_...It’s up to Quickswitch to save his new faction!_

Cut tu Quickswitch angrily screaming at the Decepticons and fending them off using his many alt-modes and then changing his mind and running away from them, screaming. Watching from sidelines, there are slightly concerned Optimus Prime and visibly pissed Ironhide.

Suddenly, the fourth wall gets knocked down: the screen gets switched off by the remote control in the hand of Ironhide – the very Ironhide sitting in the antique Transformer-sized armchair next to Optimus Prime occupying his giant rocking chair with sleepy Quickswitch curled up on his lap. While normal inside a turbofox hunter’s hut, this arrangement obviously doesn’t belong to the spaceship-turned-headquarters interior of the Ark.

After turning off Teletraan 1, Ironhide glares menacingly at slightly alerted Quickswitch.

“Stupid six-changer,” he challenges him angrily. “Save the faction… You think you’re so tough, huh? How about some… Liquid nitrogen for ya?!”

He stands up and rapidly draws his weapon, pointing it at Quickswitch to Prime’s indifferent puzzlement.

Startled, Quickswitch jumps up in panic and attempts to transform into all of his six alt-modes simultaneously, which leads to his disintegration into the heap of spare parts he started off as.

“That’s why he wasn’t in the original cartoon,” slightly embarrassed, Optimus Prime sums up this accident.

The screen cuts to black to subsequently reveal…

  
  


In a distant, somehow icy location happy Sixshot throws his murderous arms up.

“Hooray! No more child support!”

...

“Um, excuse me!”

Ever vigilant, even in this ecstatic state he notices something small moving near his stomp-happy feet.

“Huh?”

“Hey! Hello there,” a tiny and irritating voice raises to Sixshot’s audios as grubby hands take hold of his thruster. “My name is Daniel Witwicky and I’m in urgent need of your assistance, Mister Decepticon, because – would you believe it! - I’ve lost my Dinobots again! My parents keep dumping me on them, which for the outsider may look like a clear sign that they want to get rid of me and make it look like an accident, but it’s obviously not true as they are just busy and hardworking! People often think that I’m obnoxious but the truth is that I’m just smarter than them and that’s what gives them such impression! And no, I didn’t befriend Wheelie only to come across as the less obnoxious one, it’s a bunch of stupid lies! Do you want to become my unwilling friend slash authority figure? I’ll teach you how to be good and stuff!”

Sixshot is watching him in horror.

“Can’t mech catch a little break?” He asks rhetorically.

As Daniel starts climbing on him using some pretty invasive equipment, this one-mech army, weapon of mass destruction and murderer of planets dramatically stares at the horizon and then sighs with depth evoking all his six alt-modes combined.

“Frag my life.”

The screen cuts to the end credits whose contents are not important enough to focus on.

  
  


Source:[ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SkpsA6s20yk](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SkpsA6s20yk), <https://tfwiki.net/wiki/Quickswitch>

  
  


After credits:

  
  


After the credits are rolled, it is revealed that the song-like wailing which accompanied them is actually generated by Sixshot who, down on his knees in the middle of icy plain, has been dramatically mourning his freedom. The background powerful sound of banjo can be traced to Daniel, playing merrily by the bonfire next to his new friend and showing no signs of worry at being lost and far from home as if it was a daily occurrence for him – distressed companions included.

The sound gets abruptly cut off as Ironhide appears out of nowhere and angrily backhands the despairing Sixshot.

“Stupid six-changer!”

  
  


Creepy as it is, the pile of spare parts scattered on the Ark’s floor gives out the final burst of demented laughter. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, remember Courage? Whose childhood fears got amplified by this adorable pup & co? *raises hand*  
>   
> I learnt about Quickswitch during one of many dives into the rabbit hole that is TFWiki. It has it on good authority that this unhinged Autobot individual is Sixshot’s son, yet it somehow neglects to mention how it exactly happened (ain’t factions hereditary or something?).  
> Here, dear canon, I fixed it for you!  
>   
> ...  
>   
> Holy shit! TFWiki says that Sixshot is officially called “Solo Transformer Assault Group” aka “S.T.A.G.” Doesn’t strike you as a type, now does he? Then it’s weird that he ended up with only ONE child...  
>   
> O my god…  
>   
> “Oh no, it’s Sixshot! He commits war crimes and all adultery in the fragging Universe and beyond!”  
>   
> “He heh, you’re screwed! Sixshot came here to do all the nasty stuff… And your mom.”  
>   
> “Is that a jet? Is that a beastformer? Oh no, it’s Sixshot, the one-mech frat house!"  
> "Hell yeah!... I mean, oh hell no!... Notice me, Sixshot...”  
>   
> “Sixshot, you big S.T.A.G.! Take me to berth or lose me forever!” – Quickswitch’s mom (probably).  
>   
> Hun-Grr: “...but it was too wriggly to eat, so I killed it with nuclear power together with Sinnertwin, Cutthroat and Sixshot… You know our buddy Sixshot, Ma?”  
> Ma-Grr *giggles* “Nah, sonny, I don’t know nothin’ about Sixshot. Tell me all about this… Buddy of yours.”  
>   
> “Hey, kid! Buy this exclusive Sixshot Monacus Edition™ toy and have fun with his six alt-modes! Don’t forget to tell your mommy about the secret seventh mode, she’ll know what to do with it... Batteries not included.”


End file.
